Attack
by greencard
Summary: An attack leaves House and Wilson dealing with fallout that they never could have anticipated. WARNING: part one contains offensive language and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Part One - reviews welcomed.**

* * *

It was only when he was actually standing in the warm foyer and could hear the thrum of voices behind the doors that Wilson knew, deep down, he had never had any intention of actually going in. Changing his tie three times; stopping for gas; driving even more scrupulously than usual; all had sabotaged his chances of arriving on time, as he must have known. His hand closed around the soft little disc in his pocket and squeezed. He wondered what the hell he was doing.

He hadn't been to Temple, and hadn't given a crap about the fact he hadn't been to Temple, for years. He wasn't quite, as House had declared over a brandished chopstick one Christmas Eve, the _worst Jew ever_, but at some point in the process of growing up he had left behind the idea of personal faith and all that had left him with was tradition. Tradition was something for families, for when he was with his parents, or for when he had kids of his own, one day. But waking up on the first day of Hanukkah the idea had seized him, and he couldn't shake it off and he couldn't see the sense in it either, and now here he was, in a half-assed compromise on the doorstep. The low voices from within and the murmur of traffic from outside hummed around him and he stood for some minutes, pleasantly suspended between a haze of half-sounds: his own private atrium.

Finally he reached into his coat pocket, and drew out a handful of change. He dropped the coins one by one into the battered collection box. When he ran out he stared at the little black slot, feeling strangely bereft, before stepping out into the street.

That might have been the moment when they started following him - he'll never know, now, - but thinking back, Wilson certainly didn't notice anyone tailing him as he hunched against the cold and headed towards the parking lot. The wind seemed to push against him and reach under his collar to chill the back of his neck. Reaching the ramp and descending underground was a relief.

The parking lot was an ugly cement block that Wilson would have avoided using on aesthetic principles had it not been so convenient and near-empty. From the outside it squatted on the New Jersey skyline like a sullen half-brick. Inside, it felt oddly cinematic; he was acutely aware of his footsteps tapping deliberately away on the concrete, moving between cold pools of electric light and the huddles of dark shadow that striped the floor (a black and white thriller, he thought later).

He stopped concentrating on noises in favour of warming his hands as he approached his car, gleaming patiently in a corner (_and did he deliberately park so that he'd have the longest possible walk to the service?_ he wondered idly). His fingers were numb, except for the tips, which stung from the cold. Wilson had reached the far wall, digging in his pocket for the keys and watching his breath bloom white in the air, when he finally heard the movements behind him.

Wilson turned round absent-mindedly when he heard the tread behind him, one hand still groping for his car keys, and saw the three guys. They were all younger than him, mid-twenties maybe, two with shaved heads and one with an oversized baseball cap. The one furthest back was jiggling his leg nervously; the one in the cap was staring at his car. The closest one was wearing the same t-shirt that one of his patients always wore to chemo sessions, with the same slightly faded picture of Bruce Lee braced before some unseen opponent. He was holding a knife, pointing it at Wilson's chest.

Wilson went very still, his eyes fixed on the blade. It wagged in front of him like an admonitory finger. In the brief silence, as he felt a sudden sweat dampen his collar and his fingers finally bumped against his keys as his hands went slack, the knife was brought up in front of his face.

"Against the wall."

He edged backwards obediently, bringing his hands up from his pockets and raising them. As soon as his back hit the concrete they closed ranks around him. The one wearing the cap spat loudly on the floor, narrowly missing Wilson's shoe. He grimaced, but they didn't notice; the jumpy one was rooting through his coat pockets and pulling out his wallet. Wilson felt a stab of satisfaction that he had loaned half his cash to House that morning.

"Forty," announced Jumpy, unimpressed. Wilson felt his breath catch as Chemo Shirt Guy waved the knife in frustration.

"The fuck?!" He grabbed the wallet and confirmed the diagnosis, and Wilson suddenly changed his mind and wanted to kill House as Shirt Guy drove a knee into his groin with vicious force and watched as he folded up and dropped to the floor. Wilson pressed his forehead into the concrete, coiling into a tight ball as angry voices argued high over his head. He hoped he wasn't going to throw up on his coat, on their shoes, and make the situation worse. Hands curled under his arms as he was pulled up and forced to uncurl, feeling bands of muscle in his stomach wrenched painfully as they fought to stay contracted.

"Where's the rest?" The wallet was waved accusingly in front of his face, but it was a definite improvement on the knife. Between gasps, Wilson managed to answer them:

"I don't have anything else --" His voice sounded breathy, and they punched him in the face by way of acknowledgement. Wilson made a mental note to ask House if he _looked_ like the kind of man who walked around with rolls of notes in his pockets, as hands kept him propped up against the wall and started rummaging through his pockets. They were talking at him again, he realised. _There was something distinctly unfair_, he thought irritably, _about a society where the muggers go around complaining that you stiffed them_.

"What's the PIN?"

Wilson swallowed thickly. "What?"

"PIN, for the AmEx." Three plastic credit cards were waved in front of his dazed face again, and he realised what they meant. _Don't they know I'll just cancel them when I get home?_ he thought in surprise. He wasn't sure what to say; would they be able to tell if he made it up, gave them a fake -?

Wilson had clearly hesitated too long ("_Mean fucker, i'nt he_?") because the one in the cap, who had been the only one keeping eye contact and who kept grinning at him horribly, punched him hard in the stomach. Cap and Jumpy held his arms tightly, pinning him against the cement while the one with the knife moved forwards to fill his line of vision. "Mean bastard, aren't you?" Pale blue eyes roamed over Wilson's face, and Wilson wondered how he was supposed to act in a situation like this; how to appease someone like that. Shirt Guy leaned forward until he was practically spitting in his face when he spoke. "Fuckin' _Jew._"

Wilson's eyes widened and he opened his mouth (to say what? He wasn't sure,) but the grip that Cap had on his arm made it feel like it might grind out of its socket at any moment and he didn't say anything. Shirt Guy held up his car keys, and pressed the button so that his car door flashed and clicked open. _Fuck, my car too,_ thought Wilson, but only for a second because a panicky chorus had started up in his head and drowned out everything else the moment the guy had said "Jew" in that voice.

"Wouldn't you just know," said Shirt Guy calmly, turning to his buddies, "that a nice car like this would belong to a fuckin' Yid?"

Wilson wished he knew what the hell they were expecting, so he could just give it to them and go home. And then Shirt Guy turned to him and stabbed the knife through Wilson's coat and jacket and deep into his shoulder. He pulled it out again with a satisfied grunt, and that hurt even more.

Wilson gaped in horror, and _anger _that he hadn't even fucking _done _anything, and tried to wrench away. He might have fought them for a whole three seconds before all the blood seemed to drain from his face and pulse out of the hole in his skin. Wilson felt limp, the shout dying on his lips._ If I'd known this was coming_, he thought dizzily as those hands pulled him upright again,_ this wouldn't be happening, I wouldn't have just --_

"Stand up, you piece of crap," said the one with the cap into Wilson's ear, almost conversationally, and Wilson did, getting his trembling knees under control. Cap looked like he was enjoying a private joke; the others just looked jumpy as fuck; and vicious. Wilson's shoulder felt hot and tight and made him feel sick whenever it moved. The knife hovered in front of his vision, a gleaming white smile in the darkness, but as it moved he saw it was all red and slippery. He felt faint, and his mouth felt clumsy when he spoke:

"What do you want?"

The knife blade pressed against his chest and Shirt Guy unbuttoned his overcoat and peeled it open, revealing the dark stain spreading over his shirtfront. _Ruined_, noted Wilson vaguely, and he heard a cry of pain as it echoed around the car park and faded away.

"Shut the fuck up."

His phone was plucked out of his suit pocket, and for some reason Shirty was acting really hurt and angry that he hadn't handed it over straight away, and yelled in Wilson's face, calling him all these terrible things, foul words, and Cap was chuckling and saying something that tickled his ear softly, and he heard the word "kill", and "fucker" and "Yid" and he opened his mouth and squirmed weakly against their hands, to say something to save himself. Shirty jabbed him again, in the side, and as he slid down the wall he felt the skin part and peel and realised that he'd been stabbed again.

A foot slammed into his stomach, and when his vision cleared he was watching shoes move over to his car and open the door. _The safest car in its class, and I get knifed for it,_ Wilson thought in fury, and then he was overwhelmed by another fit of rage that he was probably dying and he wasn't thinking about anything more important. He was trying to wrap around himself and keep his blood in, his left hand groping his side and his right pressed against his shoulder, and the harder he pressed the more those purple blots spread over his vision.

"What's the PIN, you piece of shit?"

"S-s-six . . Four . . ," Wilson was mumbling into the concrete, and couldn't remember what came next, so he just said it again and prayed desperately that they might go away, "four - it's six, f-four, . ."

"What?"

"Six . .". Shirty knelt down beside him - he was reaching into his trouser pocket because the bastard _still_ wanted something, and Wilson wanted to tell him to fuck off but couldn't quite manage it. If this was school his brother would have stepped in by now, and told them to fuck off for him, but there was no one else there; his brother couldn't help and probably never would again. He felt the fingers slide against his hip and moaned; tried to kick.

Then he saw the guy's body convulse suddenly and slip down, palms pressed against the slick concrete. Wilson watched as Shirty gasped for breath, his eyes bulging. The other two bent over him and shook him, and then swore. He heard them running away.

Shirty was turning blue. _Anaphylaxis. Timely, huh?_ commented the House in his head, but Wilson ignored him. He was imagining the headlines when they found their two bodies lying here in the dirt in the dark, the stabbed doctor and the suffocated delinquent. _That'll be a puzzle for you_, he thought bitterly.

Wilson watched as Shirty slumped over, and felt vaguely pleased that he was so far above this man's panic. He felt calm now, even though he could hear House's voice from somewhere inside his head telling him things and calling him names, yelling about blood loss, about shock. But he felt incredibly calm. Maybe Wilson could just leave Shirty here: leave him on the floor like he deserved, leave him to bleed . . . But there was so_ much_ blood creeping over the ground, it made him feel dizzy. _Call help_, the voice was insisting loudly, strident as ever despite the fog in his brain: _Call an ambulance, you moron._

_Shut up, House,_ thought Wilson sleepily, but House never did, and Shirty wasn't going to help him, so he tried. He reached forward. His hand was all white on the back and all red on the front. He groped for his phone where it lay on the floor, and watched as his numb fingers slipped over the keypad. _6,4 - no, not that, - 9,9 - stop shaking - 8, no, . . . 9, . .1,1._


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I am writing this story without much time to spare, so chapters are written the evening they are posted - I hope this doesn't feel to rushed!**

* * *

He was being jostled, and it was too loud. He tried to move away, to push those hands off him, but a bolt of pain shot through his arm and lights bit into his eyes when he tried to open them. He tried to scream but only managed a pathetic gasp, and he hoped those guys weren't still around to laugh at him as he felt heat well up under his scrunched eyelids. He was freezing, and someone was grabbing at him, pulling off his shirt as he tried to wriggle away -

"Doctor Wilson -" He knew that voice. Soft, his name. "Doctor Wilson, it's ok. Can you hear me?"

Cameron had come to see him. She sounded gentle, concerned. _Screwed!_ he thought manically. _I must be dying._

"Doctor Wilson?" His arm was burning a hole all the way up to his shoulder. "Doctor Wilson, try to stay still. It's ok."

He wanted to laugh, or shout at her, _are you serious?,_ point out that his arm was about to fall off, and that he wanted his clothes back, but the urgent voices weren't listening to him anyway. Wilson tried to say something, to focus on _someone_ and make them explain to him, but he caught a flash of the ceiling hurtling sickeningly fast above his head and felt a rush of nausea. The gurney swung to a stop and he opened his mouth, to ask them, _Am I dying? _or, _what's happening to me?_ or even, _I'm think I'm going to puke,_ but a mask was pressed over his face and his voice was drowned by another - _"Breathe in deeply, Doctor - deep breaths - "_

Wilson tried to grab a wrist, to make them answer him, overwhelmed by a sudden terror that this might be _it_, that he'd had his last conversation and human touch and it had been with those men in the darkness. His fist closed on empty air. The plastic seal muted his questions. Everyone began sliding away, talking far above his head and miles away from him, leaving him alone in the industrial glare of lights as he fell, and was lost in the darkness.

* * *

It was probably hugely unprofessional - the sort of thing House would criticise her for - to leave the E.R. mid-shift, but the department wasn't swept off its feet and Cameron felt a clear sense of duty. She'd called House as soon as Wilson was settled in surgery, and whatever exterior the man might present day to day, she was sure he'd need a friend. Someone should be waiting when he arrived to fill him in; to reassure him, and _she_ was here. She couldn't just hand the job onto some passing nurse, she told herself. House would want her here.

She wondered if she was concentrating so much on House to distract herself from Wilson. She should still be reeling from that incredulous jolt at seeing a familiar face under the blood and apparatus (every doctor's private nightmare, suddenly manifest,) but having to keep up with the frantic pace of the E.R. had forced her to stay focussed. Yet now, a good fifteen minutes later, she was thinking of _House_, of how to help. It was a pattern she couldn't break. She was uncomfortably, defiantly aware that this evening she wasn't even trying.

She tried to anticipate his reaction. Her stuttered explanation on the phone - "Doctor Wilson, some sort of accident" - had been met with a terse "I'm on my way", and then the humming of the dial tone before she could say anything else. For some reason, Wilson was the only person House seemed to consider his friend (despite the evidence that he had plenty more people he could rely upon, she thought with a twinge of irritation). He'd have to be going out of his mind. Volatile: she mentally started drafting her statements for when he came into the conference room where she was waiting.

As ever with her attempts to anticipate House's behaviour, her guesses were completely wrong.

She only just caught the shadow of his form moving past the glass walls. She spun around, but he was stalking forwards with an intense expression and absolutely no indication that he was aware she was there, waiting. She darted after him and fell into that familiar shadow-step.

"House -"

He ignored her, and didn't stop until he had found the right doorway, hopping up the stairway with apparent disregard for the pain that _had_ to be shooting up his leg. She hoped it was adrenaline rather than Vicodin - but he didn't look_ wild_, not in the way he did when they screwed up a diagnosis or when he was coasting the high of some diagnostic insight. He looked as controlled as she had ever seen him, eyes fixed ahead and his grip firm on his cane.

Maybe that was what gave it away. The tension, the _effort _of self-containment was crackling off him like electricity.

He stopped dead at the glass observation balcony. She stared at his shoulders as he stared at the operating theatre. Her instinct was to drag him away, _you shouldn't be watching this,_ but she knew it was hopeless. So instead she took a step forward, and stood next to him. Looked down at the pale body spread out and motionless in the spotlight, the calm centre in a desperate maelstrom of activity. The red-soaked gloves were gesturing urgently, probing insistently away at the patient (the term slipped in instantaneously - how could that be Wilson?) and she had to shut her eyes.

"What happened?" His voice was quiet, and impossibly gentle for House. It grabbed at her, made something inside her buckle. Made her start speaking immediately - more than any of his other furious or brazen demands, this one ached to be answered, to stop up the silence that it left hanging after it.

"He's lost a lot of blood. Two deep lacerations, one in the shoulder, one in the abdomen - some bruising too, broken ribs . . . We don't know how it happened yet. He wasn't very . . coherent when he arrived." Cameron hadn't been able to interpret whatever Wilson had been saying; it had looked like he had been trying to defend himself maybe, punch the air. She had stepped back, unwilling to fuel his panic.

House still wasn't looking at her. "They managed to give him some blood in the ambulance, and he woke up for a few seconds in the E.R., but the amount of - the effect on his system -"

House continued to stare down, but his gaze seemed to have filmed over. "Why didn't the airbag deploy?" he asked softly - almost philosophically, - apparently not expecting an answer. Cameron's mouth fell open.

"I - House, it wasn't a car accident. Deep, narrow, clean lacerations, not glass and metal. I didn't mean to say it -"

"Lacerations?" House finally broke his implacable stare at the O.R. and turned to her in disbelief. "_Stabbed_? You think _Wilson_ was knifed?"

"That's what he told them on the phone - it wasn't very clear, or make much sense at the time, but it looks like a mugging from what the paramedics said. No wallet on him, his car was unlocked and open, and there was another guy -" House cut her off, and finally met her eyes, and she nearly took a step back.

"They stabbed him twice for twenty bucks and his gym membership card?"

All of Cameron's intentions to comfort shrank inside her; there was nothing she could here. She watched him carefully; he was mercifully no longer glaring at the frenzy below them, but had taken on that inward, distracted look.

"I'll be here if you need me," was all she could say, before she stepped out of the room, with its terrible view and the cold, fierce stare of its occupant.

* * *

House was guaranteed to have several speeding tickets to commemorate the evening's near-suicidal drive towards the hospital, but the things that he _knew_ would be the permanent mementos of the trip were the twisted wreckages that his mind had kept summoning up, with perverse detail and variation - the driver's side of the Volvo flattened by a lorry; the nose of the car buried in a river or wrapped around a tree; his friend's body pinned and crushed amidst a tangled cage of iron and glass. Awful, but all too imaginable. _And all wrong._ This new information . . . did not compute. No new scenes leapt into his mind. It was too _implausible._

_Stabbing_ was far too dramatic and visceral and outlandish and physical for Wilson; forever raising his hands or rolling his eyes, but never even throwing a punch in the whole time House had known him (and considering that during that entire time Wilson had known _House_, it was a remarkable feat of self-control). He couldn't picture any scuffle or hear any gasps, no rolling on the floor and hitting out. All he could see was the white lab-coat, the white body below him, and a gap of logic that somehow bridged the two.

The _body -_ he forced himself to concentrate on the scrum below him. Wilson's BP was tanking. There was blood everywhere, staining masks and gloves and beading in slippery globules on the medical silverware. He leaned forward, pressed his head against the cool glass, and waited for the monitors to start screeching, or for Wilson to wake up and tell him what the hell he had gotten up to in the six crappy hours since he had left House in his office. The only puzzle here wasn't medical, and couldn't distract him. Speculating about what had happened . . . just made him feel sick.

Until one happened - crash or recovery - he knew, he was stuck here against the glass like a stain on a slide, haunting the window like a ghost. Trapped.

He stared down.


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson crashed just ten minutes after Cameron had stepped away from the glass screen. House's mouth made a silent 'O' and his heart thumped into overdrive as if compensating for Wilson's own, which had slipped into silence without warning. But House didn't actually _do _anything. He was deafened by his own rush of blood and a high whining noise in his ears, even though he realised that the glass wall separating them made it impossible for him to hear the monitors. He did hold his breath; but after a few seconds he had to exhale and breathe in again in his dizziness, and it felt like a betrayal. Irrational: but he wasn't waiting with Wilson; his body had un-frozen even though the line on the monitor below him was still a screaming still bar. 

Wilson was bucking with each press of the paddles. House knew that if he didn't wake up this time, _next_ time, they would stop, policy and sense would demand that they would stop and the shrieking of the flat-line would be unplugged and that would be the last noise Wilson made. And as he pressed against the glass he felt a wave of vertigo, as if the whole thing was tilting and he was watching the scene from somewhere higher, swinging directly his friend's body and the muted movements of the staff. And the mental chant of _charging - clear; charging - clear,_ was inexorably moving towards --

_time of death_ - but the light was angled to turn his wristwatch into a blind disc of white and he had no idea what time it was, but if Wilson didn't snap out of it this time -_ this_ time --

Wilson's chest jerked skywards again, and with it the little red line peaked and dipped, and kept on going. And the staff un-tensed for the moment, rounding their shoulders and nodding to one another, and kept on going like the faceless professionals they were, while House fought the urge to sink to the floor as his whole body rattled with relief.

In a sudden moment of self-consciousness, as happened sometimes when he had drifted off in thought on the bus or was watching the tv, he realised that his mouth was practically hanging open and he snapped it shut in annoyance. He was acting like any gaping, gormless relative; but what could he _do_? The fact his brain had shut down in the moment of crisis was proof he was of no use to anyone, no help to Wilson at all, but here he was, still watching, because - because of what?

He was suddenly assaulted by hundreds of past echoes of his own thoughts, on all those people who clung to the waiting room as if they any actual_ impact_ on what was happening, or had something to prove, to show they _cared_. He felt a vague rush of panic, of self-betrayal at his own loss of clear-thinking, and wondered what he was doing, why he was here. _Because you're a human being_ Wilson would shout at him, glowering in exasperation. Wilson _was_ going to say that, decided House; because obviously they couldn't have had their last conversation, and Cameron was bound to rat him out and tell Wilson about his idiotic vigil.

A masked figure below him hung up another bag of blood. Wilson slept on, utterly unperturbed by the fact he was making House act like a moron.

And House, he would answer,_ no, it's not that_, and he would wipe away Wilson's smug little humanitarian theory. He was here because -

Even though it was making him want to puke or pass out, and exact a terrible revenge on Wilson as soon as he was conscious enough to appreciate it, he was scared to turn around and turn back to a world without his friend in it.

He'd say something like, _because I wanted to see if after all your time in the chemo playpen you_ _actually_ did _have a heart of gold,_ or _because I was guarding you against nurse Debbie; she got all fired up after ripping your shirt off,_ and Wilson would roll his eyes, and that would be that.

* * *

The surgery lasted for an agonizingly long time, a sort of hopeless limbo period in which House stared at the milling figures to whom he daily doled out abuse and found himself silently pleading with them not to screw up. Tedious minutes where Wilson seemed out of immediate danger were all laced with the constant threat of another crash, and House alternated between pacing around the tiny box and trying to identify the figures behind the masks, mentally scrutinising their levels of experience. There was another glitch, a moment when Wilson's heart just _stopped_ for a few seconds, and he had felt with a leaden certainty that it was over: House wasn't the sort of man who got lucky twice. Wilson had bounced back almost instantly.

Now they'd stitched him up and were wheeling him out, barking soundless orders from behind the window and probably providing the nurses they were handing him over to with a shitload of information that House should definitely know about. House's actual understanding of Wilson's medical situation beyond _not dead (yet)_ was minimal. There might be organs ruptured, ligaments severed, permanent damage and complications, as well as the _hows_ and _whys _and _what next_? Below him someone was industriously mopping blood off the floors, skirting calmly around the empty table. He should go, keep up with the news.

Instead he made a far-too late investigation into how much his leg hurt, shifting his weight for the first time in what felt like hours, and nearly slammed into the wall as his brain caught up with his body. The stairs would have to wait a few minutes.

He ended up sliding gently down the wall of the room and easing his leg out in front of him. He spun the Vicodin bottle idly in his fingers and watched the pills randomly colliding, falling away, bumping together.

When the door opened, who knew how much later - (was it still night? Or morning?) - he almost didn't have the energy to look up. The silence stretched out and he finally tilted his head, up from the fuck-me shoes and form-fitting skirt and into the tired, sympathetic face. She raised her eyebrows questioningly when she saw him on the floor.

"Are you ok?" House stared at the scuffed tips of his shoes. He couldn't decide if she was a welcome distraction.

"My leg hurt," he said, after a pause. It had the advantage of being both completely true and having nothing to do with the question she had been asking. A shadow slid over his legs, and then Cuddy was sinking down the wall and sitting next to him, twisting her neck to look through the window.

"Ruptured appendix," she said conversationally, gesturing to the newest arrival downstairs. House hadn't noticed the next body being brought in. He glanced over. Middle-aged female; the surgeon rooting around in her lower abdomen looked utterly unruffled. He found he didn't care, didn't give a solitary shit about whatever happened to her down there. The world suddenly began to feel slightly more normal.

"He's in the ICU," she said eventually. Even House couldn't possibly get away with saying 'who?', but he had a desperate urge to evade the coming conversation. He gripped his thigh to make it very clear that the only reason he was loitering in the observation room was the inconvenience of the stairs. _Cripple card_.

She smiled, and House stared at her in surprise. "I'm amazed you didn't barge into his surgery yourself," she explained. "Start supervising and yelling. I was all ready to bring security down here."

"But that would have been_ rude_," he said in mock-puzzlement. "Anyway, I don't bludgeon the people wielding the scalpels. I find it doesn't boost the patient's odds."

"Do you want to see _the patient_?"

"And do what? Watch him sleep for the next twenty hours?" He watcher her uncross and cross her legs.

"He's stable, for the moment. The surgery went well, on the whole. No real complications --"

"His heart stopped. Twice," House pointed out, knotting his fingers on his stomach to prevent them from giving anything away. "I wouldn't call that _going well_."

"I heard," said Cuddy, looking at him sympathetically.

"If you want to go stroke someone's hand, Wilson's right down the corridor," he snapped. "Try there, seeing as he's the one who's half-dead and can't fight you off." Cuddy looked slightly sick at this description, and House felt somehow better for saying it. Impressing it on other people meant he didn't have to think about it himself, somehow. He frowned, at himself; it was practically his job to think about it. The words_ friendship_ and _ethical responsibility_ swam swiftly through his mind.

"What's his status?"

"We put him on a vent for now, help fight the sepsis. Luckily the ribs aren't in any position to puncture a lung, so that's one less thing they had to deal with."

House reviewed the '_we_' and '_luckily_', and then stopped himself. He didn't want to take this out on Cuddy. It wasn't her fault that he had spent the last god-knows how many hours going through spectator's hell and murdering his leg in the process. Annoyingly, according to Cameron, it wasn't even Wilson's fault.

"The other wound . . . His arm - there could be some complications - when he fights off the sepsis and recovers from the blood-loss." House's head snapped up, but she shook her head. "It's too soon to even speculate about," she said firmly. "First he has to get through the next twenty-four hours, stabilize."

"What kind of -"

"House." Her small white hand was gripping his sleeve, and he looked at her face. She'd been crying, he realised. "Not yet. Right now is important. He just needs -- in a few days. When he wakes up. It's not even remotely important until then." He disagreed, but he didn't say it. Another thing to think about, when the fuzz cleared out of his brain.

He got to his feet, clenching his jaw through the shot of pain in his leg and watched as Cuddy stood up beside him. He saw his grip, white-knuckled on the cane, and thought _blood-loss_. Bloodless; that was how he had looked. Dead.

"You should go home, get some sleep," Cuddy said.

"Says the woman practically swaying on her feet," he retorted. He was only faintly relieved when she took a gentle hold of his arm as the stepped towards the staircase, perhaps to steady herself, as he felt himself anchored. The journey down was nothing like as smooth as the trip up.

"I should --" he gestured wordlessly, and she nodded.

"I'll show you to his bed. You can sit with him for a while," she said.

"I can _look over his chart_," corrected House. "Doctor, not grieving widow."

"No grieving required," she shot back. "His stats looked good. He should be fine." House snorted and walked ahead, and she grabbed onto his arm again.

"_House_," she said, staring at him anxiously. "It's ok. There's every chance he'll make a complete recovery from this. He'll be fine."

House stared at the door she had led him to, and swallowed. Now was as good a time as any to find out. "Cameron thought he'd been stabbed." Cuddy winced, but nodded, and he found he couldn't look at her anymore.

"Then yeah. He'll be _fine_." He wrenched his arm away and stepped into the room. He tried to ignore the new surge of guilt rising up in his stomach; she hadn't followed him inside. Reaching backwards, he shut the door on her shocked eyes and pale face and moved forwards towards the bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks very much for the reviews so far! Here's the next bit:**

* * *

Anne Pierce had barely been working at Princeton-Plainsboro for a month. She couldn't even claim to have met half of the hospital's staff, and had certainly never spent much time around the oncology staff. Consequently, the feverish rush of speculation and gossip that had accompanied the admission of a half-dead department head and his mysterious companion had left her cold and with an unpleasant taste in her mouth. She knew the rumours had their foundations in genuine concern - at least, she hoped sincerely, that they did for most of her co-workers, - but . . . Several graphic and imaginatively constructed accounts of the attack had already reached her ears - one particularly popular version sounded suspiciously like a recent plotline from _General Hospital_, and seemed to be based entirely on Nurse Andrew's ghoulish insistence that Doctor Wilson had, as she put it, a "philandering streak" and (she had whispered it dramatically across the nurses' station, with significant looks at the other staff) a "chequered past". Anne shook her head sadly, and glanced down at the pale man stretched out on the bed. Times like this made you doubt the extent of people's goodwill.

She was changing the IV bag when the man below her stirred, and blinked his way into consciousness. She gave him a brief, professional smile.

"How are you feeling?"

He licked his lips and tilted his head in a way that might have been a nod, or a shrug. She stepped backwards and picked up his chart as his eyes flicked listlessly around the room. She was about to step out of the room when he suddenly gasped, and moved as if he was going to sit up.

"Steady now -"

"The man -"

"Lie _still,_" and she stood like a matronly sentinel until he fell back onto the bed, pale and sweating, breathing heavily.

"Is he here? Is he awake?" The man's eyes were darting to the door, as if expecting someone to come bursting in at any second. He looked terrified. "The man I came in with, is he - ?"

"He's on a different floor," she said, pressing one hand onto his shoulder and keeping her eyes fixed on the monitors. "Please try and calm down."

"Is he conscious?" Anne frowned.

"He hasn't regained consciousness. I'm afraid I really can't tell you anything else -" but the man already seemed to be relaxing. He nodded, and his eyes lost their fogginess.

"You should try and concentrate on feeling better. Get some rest. I think the police would like to have a word with you later, but that's at my discretion so -" she gave him a conspiratorial smile - "let me know when you feel ready."

"The police . ." He stared at her for such a long moment that she began to feel awkward. "Is he going to be ok? Going to live?"

"I'm afraid I can't -"

"Please, just let me know that much? No details, nothing like that, I just want to know if he's going to be alright." He sounded so desperate that she relented for a moment and sighed.

"It's important that you understand his injuries were _very_ serious."

"He's going to die?" His grip on the bedclothes was white-knuckled, and she shook her head.

"I'm afraid I really can't tell you any more than I have." He nodded, apparently satisfied.

"It's a shame," he said quietly. Anne was surprised by this sudden switch in demeanour; it fell short of the intense concern he had been radiating seconds earlier. "I mean, I didn't know him, but - I guess I was too late. I tried to help him," he explained. "There were these guys, he was fighting with them, but it didn't look fair, you know? So I stepped in, give him a hand and then -" He shrugged, and stretched back against the pillows.

"I can talk to the police now," he offered, with a brave grimace. "They probably want to know what happened, and it looks like that guy isn't gonna tell them."

She gave him a small smile by way of consolation.

"I'm sure they'll be very grateful for your co-operation," she said. "It sounds like a wonderful thing you did."

Within an hour's time, the entire hospital grapevine would agree with her.

* * *

_Tap. Tap. Tap. . . . . . Tap._

Cuddy stared, unseeing, at whatever document she currently had laid out before her and breathed hard through her nose.

_Tap . . . Tap. Tap-tap. Tap . . . ._

Her fists balled at her sides. It was, she knew, some elaborately devised form of water torture, and she shouldn't snap, not with one department head already out of commission, but if she heard one more -

_Tap._

"_House!_"

She looked up over her desk and into the belligerent blue eyes staring sullenly back at her. House looked infinitely better than when she had last seen him - he had gone home at some point, changed, and if not slept then at least ingested enough caffeine that he looked capable of crossing a room without collapsing. He leaned back in his chair and, with practised insolence, gave his cane another swift _tap_ on the floor.

"Could you possibly go and brood in your own office?!"

"Can't. My office has three annoying fellows in it. This office -" he gave the room a quick scan, "has one, albeit extremely annoying, Dean, and," his gaze drifted lower, "two _excellent _consolation prizes".

Cuddy folded her arms (rather unsportingly, in House's opinion) over her chest and gave him a look that was torn between exasperation and sympathy. To his relief, she decided to go with exasperation.

"And there's nowhere else in the entire hospital that you could go and . . . Do whatever it is you're doing?"

"Funny thing, all the rooms around here have beds, with these things called 'patients' in them." He shrugged, giving her a bemused look. "I don't know how you want to explain that, but -"

"The clinic always needs more doctors, if you want a distraction," she suggested. House stared at her.

"On my day off . . . Tell me, is there _any_ part of you that expected me to take you up on that offer?"

"You could investigate what might have set off Mr. Smith's anaphylaxis and actually be of some _use_," she snapped, pointing her biro like a rapier. House immediately slouched back in his chair and dropped his gaze to the carpet with adolescent-style pique.

"I think they can handle it," he muttered. "The nurses are falling over themselves to mop his brow. It's probably like Mardi Gras in his room."

Cuddy shrugged. "Even you can't have a problem with him. The guy intervened in a dangerous situation, helped Wilson. He's a -"

"_Don't even say it_," snarled House. Cuddy gaped at him.

"I would have thought that you of all people would be grate-"

"Oh, _please_, he says he dived in to help a perfect _stranger_. He's just some passer-by who didn't want to say, 'oh, I just happened to pass out next to the guy lying in a pool of blood', because that's not going to have you and every other moron in the place fighting to give him a sponge bath." He toyed absently with a loose thread on his jeans and pointedly didn't look at Cuddy's increasingly disapproving expression. "It probably wasn't even anaphylaxis - I bet he saw the blood and had a panic attack, - he didn't even call the ambulance, according to the EMT, so as for -"

"House! _Enough_!" She pressed her palms into the wood of the desk and stared pointedly until he reluctantly met her eyes. "I don't know what your problem is with this guy. I don't know why you're mad at him - if it's because he could help Wilson when you couldn't - _because you weren't there,_" she added, as something flickered in his eyes. "But whatever it is, I want you to suck it up and shut up. He could have made the difference between life and -" House cut her off, sitting upright and shouting:

"I'm mad because he's the one sucking up this _glory_ like it's some great thing and Wilson's barely -" He stopped and sighed, rubbing his eyebrow with the knuckle of his left hand. Something about the familiar gesture in these . . _not-familiar_ circumstances made her breath hitch. "He's acting like Wilson's dead. I heard from the nurses," he snapped defensively, when Cuddy started to protest. "He can't be a hero and have Wilson dead," he added bitterly, but he looked so upset Cuddy had to fight the urge to reach out and touch him.

"Wilson lost a lot of blood," she said gently. "He's not a doctor, it must have looked bad. He's just assuming the worst - the nurse clearly thought it best to prepare him. When Wilson's awake, we can explain that he's going to be fine. And then you can get a patient to worry about who isn't Wilson, set them on fire or pump them full of arsenic or stick electrodes in their ears or whatever you decide is necessary, and go back to being the centre of attention around here." House snorted.

"Look, I don't give a crap about Mr. Smith either right now, but just - just be grateful he's deflecting attention away from Wilson. Gives him some space to recover." Watching House process this consideration, she glanced at her watch. "He'll be coming round soon. Three or four hours."

"'Til he's blinking and snoozing. He's not going to be rating the nurses for at least a day." Something in her stomach unclenched at the certainty in his voice. No post-surgical complications (_yet, _whispered a treacherous voice in her mind); _ifs _were becoming _whens_. . .

"You could go and sit with him. Be there when he wakes up." House looked puzzled.

"But you just said that's not for at least three hours, right?"

"I . . yes, but -"

"Then until then, I guess I'll just wait here." He smiled and stretched back in the chair. Cuddy gave him a smile so tight-lipped it might well have crossed over to become a grimace.

"Right. Fine."

She stared back down at the form, still utterly unenlightened as to its content. She gripped the biro unnecessarily hard. In front of her, there was a soft exhalation, the creak of someone redistributing their weight.

And thirty seconds later, the tapping.


	5. Chapter 5

Wilson felt as if he'd been dropped into bed from a great height. He could feel gravity pulling his limbs down into the mattress; the blankets on top of him were pressing him down mercilessly. Hands, head, eyelids, all made of lead. To fade away, to give in to the heaviness and let himself fall down, would be the easiest thing in the world . . .

But with consciousness - fuzzy, vague awareness, of warmth and softness and silence, - came the seed of panic. There'd been blood, his blood, _everywhere_, and strangers and colleagues yelling over his head and never a word of explanation. He might be dying. He might give in now, and never wake up.

And still he couldn't move, trying to cling onto that idea, _don't give in, don't give in,_ _don't drown,_ as his body fought against him and fatigue buried him. He felt terror at the importance of it slipping away from him. He didn't want to die now, with no voice, no clue, no one there.

He fought. He opened his eyes.

White mist. He blinked, desperately clung on as it resolved itself into something solid . . . _Walls._ _Monitor._ _Hospital._ He was in the hospital.

And blurs became distinct, became things, _Table . . Chair . . .Window . . ._

There was the back of a man, close enough to see but somehow immeasurably far away against the featureless green. He was half-turned so that his body was positioned as if looking out of the window. But the man wasn't looking out of the window. He was looking right at him.

_House._

Already he was sinking, too tired, too weak to hold on, and House was looking at him with those too-blue eyes and the strangest expression Wilson had ever seen. He wanted to ask him, _What's wrong?_ and _What's wrong with me?_ and _Am I going to die?, _trusting House to tell him, but all he could do was lie pinned in that gaze. _Strange._

House cleared his throat, and even _that _sounded different, but Wilson couldn't think how or why; not when it took so much effort to stay conscious. His panic grew and stung in his chest, and he stared back helplessly.

"You're ok." House spoke softly, but he didn't look away.

House's words made everything dissolve in relief: he was safe. He still had time. He didn't know how House had known the question, but Wilson trusted the answer with a conviction that calmed everything.

"You'll be fine. Go back to sleep."

_Safe. _Wilson did.

* * *

Chase had checked with Cuddy, with the nurses, even stepped into Wilson's room once, quietly monitoring his condition in between rounds. A colleague being admitted was more unnerving than Chase liked to admit, especially one who drifted in and out of the Diagnostics department as frequently as Dr. Wilson. Nonetheless, he'd allowed himself to believe by now that Wilson would be ok.

His confidence plummeted as he saw his boss storm into his office.

After a moment's hesitation, Chase got up from the table and walked into the adjoining room. House eyed him balefully from where he was slumped in his chair. His cane had been flung haphazardly across the desk - never a good sign, Chase had learned.

"Is everything . . . Ok?"

House reached into his pocket for a Vicodin. The gesture in itself was ten times more eloquent than anything his boss might have actually offered as an answer. Being House, he didn't even acknowledge the question.

"What are you doing here?"

"Mr. Smith's anaphylaxis," he explained. "He's developed some unusual symptoms. They think -"

"Forget I asked." House shook his Magic 8 Ball moodily, and then looked unimpressed with the answer. He continued to glower at his desk for a few moments before he seemed to remember that Chase was still standing there. "Yes? Did you want something?" he snapped.

"No, I just -" _God, the man was unnerving._ "You seem - is Wilson ok?" House relented and ducked his head.

"Same as ever," he said. Chase nodded in relief.

"He woken up yet?"

"Yeah."

"Was he . . ?"

"What?" House replaced his scowl with a neutral expression and leaned back in his chair with a flippant air. Chase would be the first to admit that there was little House actually seemed to give a damn about, but he couldn't help wondering who he thought he was fooling. "We didn't chat. Tube down his throat - makes repartee difficult," he added brazenly.

"Was he . . I mean, did he seem . . ?" Chase had heard details about the surgery, about Wilson's heart stopping. He hadn't been oxygen deprived for long, but you could never be sure. He couldn't quite bring himself to frame the question. Not to mention the fact the guy couldn't even speak; it was a pretty stupid question to begin with.

"It was Wilson," said House lightly, apparently divining his meaning. Chase looked puzzled, but was reluctant to ask for elaboration. House wasn't the most patient man on his best days.

"Very distinctive blink," he continued blithely. Chase decided not to push for any actual details.

"Right. That's great," he added uncertainly. House hardly looked pleased with the situation.

"Go do your job," he muttered. "Find me a patient who's medically interesting and worry about them."

Chase fought the urge to roll his eyes and walked out into the corridor. Now Wilson wasn't hovering on the brink of death, a stranger from the bus stop with a weird rash would probably garner more of House's interest than his best friend. _Nonetheless . . ._

He glanced back at his boss, staring out at the rain.

He shook himself. _Patient_, he told himself, tearing his gaze away from House. At least he might have some chance of fathoming a disease.

* * *

"If you're going to actually spend your weekend off hanging around the hospital," said Cuddy, "you could at least hang around in Wilson's room." She pushed the glass door closed behind her and folded her arms. House looked up from behind his desk and frowned.

"I thought I told Foreman to tell you I'd gone home. Are you spying on me?"

"Yes. You're sitting in an office with 'Gregory House' written on the door," she said in exasperation. "It took all my administrative skill to track you down." House looked momentarily sheepish.

"Don't you have better things to do than monitor my whereabouts? No donors waiting to be _serviced?_"

"The sedation's wearing off. You should go -"

"Already been," interrupted House. "He blinked, I stood, it was a beautiful moment. Switch on his tv. He doesn't need me making small talk."

To his irritation, Cuddy didn't pounce on his callousness as he'd hoped. An argument about how much of a bastard he was could usually be relied upon to distract him from bothersome things, like leg pain, or newly-perforated oncologists.

"You said he was orientated when he woke up earlier?" she pressed. House barely smothered an eye roll.

"Seriously, the Dean of Medicine has nothing better to do than rehash my old conversations with gossipy employees?"

"Chase is concerned. I'm concerned. You're concerned, you're just an ass at the same time."

"I'm a champion multi-tasker," he said breezily.

"He knew where he was?" She looked insistent. House glared.

"I already said, remember?"

It had been a relief, to see the recognition in Wilson's eyes, even though the risk of neurological damage had been low. It had lasted for about three seconds. House liked to think that he could read Wilson like a book - a neurotic, ridiculous, inexplicably compelling book, true, - and what he'd seen in the man's eyes made him feel even more useless than he'd thought possible for someone forced to hover at a bedside. Wilson hadn't made any effort to conceal anything. Part of House knew that to almost anyone else, his expressions would have been close to unreadable anyway, but he still felt uncomfortable. Like Wilson had exposed himself in some private way.

_Or maybe that was selfish crap_, whispered a voice in his head. Maybe he wanted to feel unwelcome, wanted to use something like Wilson's _perfectly understandable_ few seconds of post-surgical anxiety against him because he, House, was a coward. Because he didn't want to go back and watch his friend's chest rise and fall with a machine, watch him blink mutely and lie there like any passive patient.

Useless. He couldn't stand it.

Cuddy had somehow gained unpleasant access to his thoughts. "You should go and sit with him," she said. "I'm going to see him now, see if he's awake. He might be able to come off the vent." She didn't move, uncompromisingly choosing to ignore House ignoring her. "You might not be comfortable playing the friend instead of the mad scientist," she accused, "but that's not a good enough reason to mope in here. God knows, he's felt uncomfortable enough times because of you."

"He's probably asleep," countered House. "And if he's not, he should be."

He could tell what she was thinking; that he was running away from his emotions, the normal psychoanalytic crap Wilson spouted at him all the time.

"I'm not saying rile him up with whatever you think passes as conversation and I _don't care,_" she said sternly, "if it isn't your idea of a good time. Watch tv in his room, eat in his room, sit around and brood in his room. Like you said, it's still him," she said, smoothing her skirt and stepping towards the door.

House wanted to point out that Wilson would be actively healing lying in bed, while he would be sitting around uselessly, doing nothing, solving _nothing_. Cuddy cut off the retort his was forming, pointing at him as she stood in the doorframe. "Now he's _not _on the brink of death," she said, her voice suddenly gentle again, "_now_ you _can_ be useful. Be a friend."

* * *

Frustrated as she was with House's attitude, Cuddy could understand where his reluctance stemmed from. She was used to talking to Wilson as a peer, or as an employee, or as a co-conspirator against House and his schemes. The silent gaze that followed her as she walked into his room and circled the bed . . . She was used to a Wilson who could hold his own. She mentally cursed House, as she wondered how long he had been lying here, conscious and alone.

"It's good to see you awake," she said as she arrived at the bedside. It wasn't exactly a lie. He was piled with blankets up to his chin; he was frighteningly pale. The ventilator covered his mouth with a little turquoise square, locking him in silence and covering up all those quirks of expression so that he was just a pair of wide, dark eyes and a shock of dark hair. But he was cognizant and alive and out of danger, and so she put her hand on his shoulder and kept smiling. "James, . . you know where you are?"

There was the merest fraction of a nod, and a faint noise as he tried to speak around the vent. She saw his fingers twitch under the blanket, and laid her hand over them before they could try to remove the tube. The resistance her fingers met was so faint, she realised it was an unnecessary gesture.

"We can take that out soon," she murmured soothingly. "I'm going to wait until you're a little bit stronger, ok? That won't be long; you're doing great."

Wilson raised an eyebrow and she broke into a grin. "I'm being serious. You have an excellent prognosis." Apparently satisfied, he discarded the look of scepticism. "You should rest. Are you in any pain?"

He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then shook his head faintly.

"They're not going to keep you on the good stuff if you play the martyr, you know."

Cuddy didn't turn round at his voice, fighting to conceal her delight as House appeared in the doorway and headed towards the chair at Wilson's bedside. The dark eyes crinkled suspiciously as House settled himself, raising his legs and resting them on the edge of Wilson's bed. House met Wilson's eyes casually, and it seemed to her that some silent exchange took place that she couldn't begin to interpret.

"I'll leave you both in peace," she announced, squeezing Wilson's hand. He blinked at her sleepily. "Don't let him disturb you." She shot a look at House, who met her amused gaze defiantly, as if daring her to comment.

Cuddy left the room, leaving House in silence, and for a moment he felt the overwhelming urge to bolt. He swallowed and risked another glance at Wilson, who quirked an eyebrow at him questioningly. The gesture un-knotted something in his gut and he felt a hot rush of shame at the same time. _Still him._

House waved his game console in Wilson's face. "I need to get to level nine, and my office is full of fellows." He leaned backwards and hooked the blinds with his cane, yanking them shut. "This is my new hideout. Try not to set off any monitors. Nurses ruin my concentration."

Wilson gave him one of his _looks_. If anything, reflected House, the vent lent itself to his deadpan delivery. It wasn't like he ever listened to what Wilson actually said, anyway.

"Any questions?" He couldn't quite hide the note of challenge in his voice, but Wilson didn't seem surprised by his sudden presence or former disappearance in the least, or to mind about his crappy, transparent excuse. Unheeded, the tiny pixelated motorbike smashed into a wall as House watched Wilson's eyes slipped closed contentedly. _No questions._

"Good," he said softly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks very much to everyone posting reviews on this story; they are massively appreciated. Let me know what you think of this next bit:**

* * *

Wilson watched the nurse flit around his room. She had a nice smile; he remembered talking to her once in the E.R., but what was her name? Alice? Amanda? It didn't matter - he couldn't talk anyway. He'd have to find out for when he was extubated, he thought vaguely. They'd had quite a long conversation; he should definitely know. 

He waited until she lifted her eyes up from his chart again, and concentrated on the task that he had been building up to for the past half hour. He tried not to think about how depressing that was.

From further investigation, after surfacing from the thick fog of drugs and exhaustion, he'd learned that his left arm was immobile up to his shoulder, where he could feel the bandages wrapped tightly against his skin. But his right arm was free, brushing against the gauze taping up his side when he tried to move it. He wriggled his fingers, and, with a gratifying degree of success, began to lift his arm. He'd been swaddled up in blankets like an infant to keep him warm - necessary after staining the parking lot floor with however much blood he'd lost (and he wondered again about asking to see his chart, before deciding for the tenth time that morning that he didn't want to know the details _quite _yet). Even with all the blankets to muffle the movement, the nurse noticed and stepped forward to restrain him gently. "Everything alright?"

He flexed his hand insistently against her own, not a little bit horrified at how quickly he was tiring, and she frowned. "IV hurting?" She leaned forward and started un-tucking the cloth from around him, and he managed to catch a glimpse of her name tag as she leaned forward. _Alicia_: he stored it away triumphantly for later.

The tiny hairs on his arm shot up immediately as he felt a rush of cool air, and she examined his hand gently. "Looks ok," Alicia said, glancing down at him. He shook his head and pressed his thumb and forefinger together. To his delight, she caught his meaning almost immediately.

"Oh, you want to _write_?" He nodded. "Sure, let me just find you a pen and some paper." He liked Alicia; he'd have to remember to talk to her more in the future. She turned back to him and he felt the dry scrape of paper being slid underneath his hand, and his fingers closed on the chunky grip of a pen. She straightened the pad beneath his fingers, and gave him a consoling smile. "At least it's not your right hand," she said, nodding to his left arm, numb and motionless beneath the cotton.

Because Wilson liked her, he only hesitated for a second before he gave decided to give her a small nod of agreement.

* * *

It was eight a.m., Cuddy had been at work since seven, and there had been no crises thus far. This fact was largely to do with the fact that House could be relied upon not to surface at work for at least another couple of hours. She knew that he thought of his pathological lateness as another minor victory in the battle against hospital regulations, against herself, against normality or whatever bizarre motives propelled him to careen through each day - which was why she was determined that he should never find out she rather liked it. The morning was _her_ time; time to oversee and organise and not be interrupted or distracted by House's antics. If he ever learned that his timekeeping was anything other than a source of worry and frustration, she had a strong suspicion that he might start becoming freakishly punctual, and that would be the end of her morning time. 

And this morning, she had more than usual to check on. A nurse leaning on the desk outside Wilson's room looked up and gave her a smile as she approached. "I think he's expecting you," she said cheerfully. Cuddy smiled back, somewhat surprised to learn that he was awake, and slid the glass door open.

Sure enough, Wilson's eyes trained on her as soon as she stepped in. He had been propped up very slightly, just so he wasn't flat on his back, and he looked far more alert than her last visit. Nonetheless, she had to fight the instinct to head for the chart instead of the man as she walked over to his bed.

"Morning. I didn't think you'd be awake yet." He nodded quickly, and she heard an insistent tapping sound. She glanced down, and saw his fingers bouncing impatiently on the pad of paper. "You're meant to be _sleeping_," she said chidingly, but she glanced down at the paper nonetheless and squinted. She tilted her head. After another few seconds, she apologetically took the pad from under his fingers and held it up, looking at it critically. Wilson rolled his eyes. "Is that a P?"

Gruelling hours of sifting through departmental paperwork had taught her that Wilson's writing was, at best, appalling. Unsurprisingly, writing with the wrong hand when he couldn't see the paper hadn't improved matters. The scrawl could pass for a pre-schoolers, or possibly some ornate variety of Sanskrit.

"P . . and that's an L?" She frowned in concentration, ignoring Wilson's looks of intense exasperation below her. "Pl . . oh, _police_?" He gave a satisfied nod. Cuddy reached for the visitors chair, and sat down at his bedside.

"You want to talk to the police?" Wilson just carried on looking at her expectantly. She pushed her hair behind her ears awkwardly. Wilson obviously wouldn't have any idea about what was going on with their investigation. "They've been waiting to speak to you. It's up to you; hopefully we can take that out - " she nodded to the vent, suddenly looking more like a gag than ever, " - soon and then, when you feel up to it. . . Obviously, they want to press on and arrest whoever . .". She cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Try not to worry about it too much. They have a fairly clear idea of what happened, so don't push yourself."

Wilson looked puzzled. "Witness account," she explained, trying to sound dismissive. She didn't want Wilson exhausting himself by being a model citizen and setting back his recovery. "They know to look out for two guys, they have a rough idea of age, I think. Whenever you can give a description is -" Wilson shook his head, and made a choked half-noise through the vent, and Cuddy felt a rush of panic that she'd said too much, dwelt too much on whatever must have happened. But Wilson was tapping his fingers again urgently, and so she slid the pen and paper back into his hand, and watched him laboriously draw another shape on the pad.

It was a question mark.

"I . ." Cuddy stared at him, wondering what she was meant to be elaborating. "They probably just need a description, nothing too elaborate -" Wilson shook his head again, and adjusted his grip on the pen. For a moment she thought he'd drawn another question mark, but when she examined it . . .

"Is that - a three?" Nod. Cuddy mentally reviewed what they had been over, trying to see where this could be leading. "Three . . days? It's Monday morning - you came in late on Friday -" Shake. "Three. . ."

Light suddenly dawned. "Three _men_? Not two guys, three guys?" Wilson gave a vehement nod, and seemed to relax slightly. She felt a momentary leap of relief that she had managed to interpret the message. Still, she was sure that the account Smith had given talked about two men - but then, Wilson was still groggy, and they'd been running away. "They should be looking for three guys?" She put her hand on his arm. "They'll find them, just give it time. They probably didn't run far -" Wilson fumbled with the pen again. This time, it looked like a drunken Z.

"Two? There _were_ two guys?" Wilson made another noise of frustration and tapped the pen. She felt a sudden tightening in her stomach. She stared at the pad for a minute in silence, before venturing; "Three guys - but only two ran away?"

Nod.

Cuddy stood up very quickly. She tried to remember what she'd heard of Smith's account of what had happened. She realised with horror her hands were shaking, and she folded them quickly across her chest. The dark suspicion that had been snaking around her for the past few minutes - she had probably gotten it wrong, misunderstood something, this hardly even classed as _communication_, for God's sake -

But she suddenly felt very sick, deep in her stomach. She smiled. "I have to go," she said, giving his hand a final squeeze. She tried to hide her agitation, and not to notice the suspicious crinkling of his forehead, his fingers reaching again for the pen. "You just rest for a while, and I'll be back later on. Don't worry about any of this -" she was stepping backwards, fumbling for the door and she flashed a final tight smile at Wilson before sliding it open. He looked confused, but even more than that, he looked exhausted. Too tired, she prayed, to make any House-like deductions from her flustered behaviour.

"Get some rest," she said, as firmly as she could, and then she had closed the door and was heading back towards the stairwell at top speed.

* * *

House was almost approaching something resembling a good mood as he stepped into the hospital. Today was full of potential. No one had died. Cameron was covering his clinic duty after being lured into another pathetically obvious bet regarding the truthfulness of their last patient's husband. As yet, he had no new patients. That gave him the best part of the day to spend annoying what should be a far more coherent Wilson, which promised to be infinitely more fun than the last few days, where he'd been forced to annoy everyone else because of Wilson's inconsiderate dabbling with cardiac arrest. His knuckled whitened for a second on his cane, and he paused where he stood in the foyer. 

That was all over, now. Wilson had been as boringly stable as one might expect of him for the entirety of yesterday afternoon. Obviously, House wasn't his doctor, and had no desire to be his doctor while he possessed such a diagnostically mundane set of complaints. Even more certainly, Wilson would have absolutely no desire for House to be his doctor either. Any attempts to actually conduct an examination would have resulted in, if not any actual protests, a lot of furious blinking.

But that hadn't stopped House from minor investigations. He'd needed _some _way to pass the time, after all. And Wilson had flinched away weakly when House had nudged his uninjured shoulder; his pupils had reacted sensibly to the gaudy stimulus of having House's computer game thrust suddenly before them when House had shown him his Rally-Racing high scores. Neurologically, everything seemed fine; he'd glared in all the right places when House had explained his theory that Wilson would be inherently unable to resist flirting with at least one nurse before he was discharged. All in all, House had established to his own levels of satisfaction that Wilson would bounce back to more or less the same condition that House had left him in on Friday night - if everything continued to go well.

In which case - why was there a policeman leaving Cuddy's office? He stared. Cuddy was nodding at the cop, wearing a strained expression he recognised immediately as a bad sign, from his practised years of inducing it. Wilson shouldn't be talking yet. It was the same policeman who had been hovering around yesterday. What could they need now, other than modifying a charge of _attempted_ murder to _actual_ -

He was at her office door in seconds, and she looked at him, and she looked _terrible_. He felt an awful, spiralling fear unravelling in his stomach. _They would have called him. They would have called him, if anything had changed -_

"He's ok," she said quickly, closing the door behind him. "But I think - we might have been wrong. Not about his condition," she said quickly, before he could say anything. "About what happened." She nodded to a chair and retreated to behind her desk. House frowned, and sat down slowly. She was looking at him as if he was the firing squad. _Someone's screwed up_, he thought, with a familiar certainty. With an unfamiliar exertion of self-control, he sat back quietly in the chair, and listened.

* * *

"I want him _tied to the bed_!" House brandished his cane for emphasis, and wheeled round from his pacing before Cuddy's desk. Now that he had stopped yelling, she relaxed her pained expression and raised her hands appealingly.  
"I've notified the police about the difference in the stories and they're taking care of it. But if I'm wrong, and we're accusing an innocent man of - "  
"Then he can have half of day of righteous indignation and everyone will fall in love with him _even more_," snarled House accusingly. "Until we know, restraints. And a guard." 

"They're on it. If we _were_ wrong, there's no reason for Wilson to have to find out."  
"That you were all for sending flowers to the psychopath who tried to kill him?"  
"That this man was left unguarded on hospital grounds," finished Cuddy. "He was on a different floor; there was no real danger -" She stopped when she saw House's glower, and sighed, sinking back into troubled silence.

House dropped back into the chair and rested his forehead on the handle of his cane, avoiding Cuddy's guilty expression. It was no more her fault than his own, but she was here, and she was Cuddy, assuming all the blame with her usual, ridiculous, egocentric sensitivity. He stared at the carpet. He couldn't have known either, he _knew _that, despite his bitching and suspicion. But it was ok; Wilson wasn't House. He didn't incite people to stalk through hospitals to hunt him down and kill him. It was simply an embarrassing error; no real harm done.

The guy had been acting like Wilson was dead. House had been furious with whatever nurse had gossiped, had painted a picture of Wilson as seconds from death, . . . but maybe that was all that had kept the guy out of Wilson's way while House had gone home to _sleep_, and he'd been lying, drugged and defenceless in the ICU, only hours away from identifying the perpetrator.

The door opened, and Foreman stepped in, followed by Chase. Cuddy stood up, trying not to show her consternation. "Well?"  
"No need to check his story," said Chase drily. "One of the nurses mentioned to _Smith_," he lingered on the suddenly too-bland name, "the good news about Wilson's recovery. He'd collapsed in the second floor stairwell. Trying to do a runner, I guess."  
"We left him with the cop," said Foreman. Cuddy nodded.  
"I'll post security, keep his room covered."  
"Only if you're _sure_," said House scathingly. Cuddy looked even more upset, and he felt a brief wave of disgust with himself, that was quickly joined by disgust for the cops and the staff and everyone else who had screwed up in their gullibility.  
"About Smith," began Foreman. Cuddy noticed Chase looked immediately uncomfortable, almost taking a step back towards the door.

"Foreman, maybe now - "

"Now is fine," said Foreman, in a tone that suggested this wasn't the first time they'd had this argument. He turned to Cuddy . "He's developed problems from the anaphylaxis that don't - "

"Then go and treat them! You're doctors, aren't you? I currently have a hospital to run whilst housing an apparently dangerous criminal, so _now _might not be the best time for a consult!" said Cuddy angrily.

Foreman was looking at House cautiously, who was still staring at the floor, apparently unaware of his gaze. Cuddy felt a strange sense of premonition. "His symptoms are _very_ unusual, and - "

"I'm sure you and his current team can handle it," she said, pointedly directing them towards the door. Foreman shook his head in annoyance, but relented and turned to leave. Chase stepped out quickly after him looking relieved, as if he had just dodged a bullet.

House was still staring at the floor, silent and oblivious. "Looks like we were wrong," she said finally. "Smith wasn't a hero." She sounded tired, sinking into her chair wearily. "You must be . . pleased, I guess."  
House snorted. "Yeah, I'm thrilled. Or maybe you _were_ right, and he's just shy around all that attention." He sat up and sighed, with the same wistful, frustrated expression she had seen him wear when he thought he'd missed a diagnosis. "Everybody lies. He did the smart thing, for a man in his position. Except now Wilson can tell the cops the truth."

"They're waiting for a statement," she agreed. She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, trying to foresee how the situation would play out. House's voice cut through her thoughts seconds later.

"Then lets give them a statement." Cuddy narrowed her eyes, but House ploughed on unperturbed. "I'm not saying we make Wilson give a detailed write-up of who and what happened. We just ask him if the guy we brought him in with was involved."

"Oh, _great_ idea. Apart from the fact he's not an idiot, and will know the 'guy we brought him in with' is still here! That will definitely speed up his recovery, telling him the man who may or may not have stabbed him twice is roaming around the hospital," said Cuddy, her voice thick with sarcasm.

"Yeah, obviously _that's_ why you didn't say anything to Wilson. Nothing to do with you feeling embarrassed about letting the guy run free for that last two days and letting the staff shower him with gift baskets! You wouldn't want to know the truth, get whoever did it arrested? Instead of treating him like he's made of glass, you could actually -" Cuddy flung her hands in the air.

"It can wait for another _day_, House! Until he's ready to talk properly! You just want to _know _- Wilson shouldn't have to suffer for your curiosity," she snapped.

"Yeah, I want to know!" he answered, and he looked heated, his voice closer to a yell than ever. "Not to mention the fact that Smith shouldn't be getting to holiday in the ICU instead of going to jail because _you_ feel guilty! It's a yes or no answer," House insisted. "You want the guy to stay slandered if he's innocent?" he asked with mock concern. "Unless of course, he _is _guilty, in which case we can have them charge the guy, get him transferred out of the hospital. _Today._ He can be somebody else's problem." He stood up abruptly.

"What are you doing?"

"Like you said, Wilson's obviously ready to talk. You're always telling me I have learn to listen, right? Let's hurry things along here."

"House - "

"I'm going to find out what happened. The guy's either a hero, or a killer." His eyes darkened. "I think it's best for everyone if we actually bother to find out which." Before she could say another word, the door was swinging back silently on its hinges, and House had gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks again to everyone reviewing this story; as ever, it is hugely appreciated!**

* * *

Wilson was drifting through a dreamless, shallow sleep. He wasn't having dreams at the moment; he was barely having thoughts. The drugs were wiping his mind clean, for which he was grateful. He could feel a lot of thoughts hovering around the edges of his brain, skulking in the corner of his mental eye, waiting to be realised. He had absolutely no desire to pay them any attention.

But _something_ was pulling him out of his doze. A faint noise, that rapidly became the squeaky grind of a door being slid open. Wilson reluctantly opened his eyes to see House coming into his room. He strode towards him with the brisk, determined movements that always characterized House when he had embarked on one of his diagnostic missions. Wilson knew that groaning whilst on the vent would probably make him gag, and was forced to fight instinct and years of practised reflex. He settled for narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"And how are we on this_ beautiful_ morning?" greeted House, hooking the chair with his cane and pulling it smoothly over. He was radiating an airy nonchalance that Wilson had long since learnt to distrust. But then Wilson remembered his own agenda. Whatever House was up to could wait; he rapped the notepad emphatically with his pen.

House glanced down for a second and scoffed. "Is that meant to be legible? I can't read your _normal _writing." Wilson glared at him and tapped the pen again with as much force as he could muster. House rolled his eyes and grudgingly picked up the pad. "If this is the best you can do, you might want to consider learning to blink morse code," he said, squinting at the scrawl. The top of the pad was covered with aborted stubs of sentences, clearly abandoned in frustration. Floating below them was written a single word, in large, spidery, aggressive letters that tripped diagonally across the page. It read: VENT?

Apparently they had the same idea. The conversation House had in mind would probably be marginally less uncomfortable if Wilson actually possessed the ability to talk. Technically, it could be done with a nod or a shake, but speaking would certainly make House feel better. There had always seemed to him to be something intrinsically distasteful about questioning anybody when they lacked the ability to tell you to go to hell.

House glanced back at the screen; Wilson's RSBI was lower now, his heart was ticking along nicely, he seemed to be hitting each breath. He'd been flooded with antibiotics to fight the sepsis and transfusions to up his blood oxygenation. The risks were low, and even if they might _ideally _wait a little longer, and House might be a little biased (despite all the times he'd wished to find a way to shut Wilson up, the reality wasn't nearly as fun as he might have imagined), they could always intubate again if it proved to be too much, and there was an O2 mask on standby . . .

House was distracted from his thoughts by Wilson, looking up at him demandingly. Clearly, in his own professional and equally biased opinion, there was no reason not to go ahead.

"God, even when you're mute you're whiny." He yanked the pen out from under his friend's fingers. Wilson looked affronted for a second, before House took his right hand and said authoritatively: "Grip. Squeeze - good." He stood up and laid the O2 mask ready on the unit, and pressed the button to tilt the head of the bed into a more upright position, while Wilson looked vaguely surprised by his own success. "Ready?" House leaned forward and gently unpeeled the tape, finally meeting Wilson's stare. "Deep breath - and, cough."

Wilson couldn't seem to _stop_ coughing. House swiftly removed the tube and pressed the mask to his face while Wilson spluttered. He closed his eyes as he felt the elastic slipped over his head, and tried to concentrate on gasping in enough air. He cracked an eye open and saw House looking at him critically. He really didn't feel like being the focus of that laser-like scrutiny right now, so he shut it again and lay back until he felt more composed.

When he next opened his eyes House was sitting down again, and for some reason he looked a lot grimmer than when he had come in. Before House could stop him, Wilson managed to drag his free hand up to the mask and pull it down. " . . . Thanks." His voice shocked him: weak and hoarse. House still looked inexplicably dispirited, so after a few moments he risked another pull on the mask, and added, "Nice -- technique." That elicited a small smile.

"No fluids just yet. You're stuck sounding like Darth Vader for now, which is actually kind of fun for everyone," said House. "But you probably shouldn't talk for a while." Wilson grimaced at this advice, and then shut his eyes again from a rush of dizziness. He felt utterly spent, and all he'd done was cough and rasp.

"Wilson - " House paused, hesitant to continue. He suddenly seemed to have lost whatever resolve he had come in with. He'd been so relieved that Wilson wasn't dying, he hadn't really concentrated on the part where he was still only half-alive. He looked like crap.

But he was still Wilson, and he was eyeing House curiously. He steeled himself for the question he was going to have to ask, and looked at Wilson's blankets with apparent fascination.

"The guy you came in with . . Anaphylactic shock, same ambulance -"

He risked a glance to see if Wilson was following. He nodded, and reached clumsily for the mask again. Wilson gulped in breaths between words, but sounded perfectly calm when he answered, "The guy -- who did -- this?"

House's eyes widened, lit by a flash of comprehension, and for a second his whole expression seemed unguarded, swallowed by some silent realisation. Whatever surprise he revealed, he had buried a second later, and he nodded slowly. " . . . Yeah. That guy." _Wilson_ was the one acting unshaken; he was just sitting there, looking at him patiently. House realised he appeared to have abandoned the conversation mid-way.

"He's . . . been arrested. Hasn't confessed, obviously, but - "

Wilson nodded again. "Was him. -- With the knife," he clarified. The lines in House's face tightened for a second, and he gave a curt nod. Of course it would be _him_, the biggest bastard of the three.

"He's still in the hospital, different floor. Security's watching him, Cuddy's watching them . . . I thought you'd want to know."

Wilson tilted his head in acknowledgement. House watched him carefully. He wasn't trying to hide his reaction, he realised with surprise. He wasn't _having_ a reaction, other than looking increasingly exhausted. He of the wild hand gestures; the man who experienced borderline hysteria over House's behaviour on a weekly basis, and this was practically the calmest he had ever seen him. _Not even drugs numb you up that much_, he thought in bewilderment. _What the hell?_

Under House's stare, Wilson looked slightly puzzled, and tugged the mask away. " . . Ok."

House pushed on: "The cops will want a full statement later, but for now -"

"Fine. Later," murmured Wilson sleepily. "Today, but -- later." He lay quietly for a moment, before something jolted him back to alertness and he groped for the mask again. House braced himself.

"Is Cuddy -- ok?"

" . . What?"

"Earlier," he mumbled. His eyelids were drooping, his eyes dark and foggy. "She seemed, . ." He coughed, and House firmly repositioned the mask.

"She's fine."

"Nothing . . ?" Typical; _this _was what Wilson decided to get paranoid about. The one thing he wasn't going to tell him. True, he was right, but it hardly seemed the issue to focus on.

"She's a department head down. She's stressed. Clearly, she hasn't realised yet how little you actually do."

Wilson gave an almost imperceptible nod. House watched as his hand gently uncurled from the plastic mask and dropped onto the blankets. He was asleep. House leaned back in his chair, rested his chin on his hands, and frowned.

It wasn't like he had been particularly relishing the idea of watching Wilson freak out. He'd have hidden it, sure, but House had been expecting a flare of something, panic or anger or _anything_ to accompany the first mention of the man who had stuck a knife in him for cash. Instead he'd gotten Wilson the Zen Master, and a strange, doubtful sensation in his stomach that made him feel even more off-balance than before.

* * *

Predictably enough, Cuddy arrived at Wilson's room a few minutes later, having recovered some of her composure. House was waiting for her, leaning idly on the wall and tapping Wilson's pen against his teeth. "You can tell the cops to go ahead and charge him," he said, before she had opened her mouth. "He was the one with the knife, apparently. Best of the bunch."

Cuddy looked vaguely nauseated. "How did he take it?"

"Fine." She looked at him disbelievingly. "Seriously," he nodded to the sleeping figure, "does he look like he's been fretting? I've seen him get more stressed over the punctuation in the tv guide." She raised her eyebrows.

"That's - good, I guess. He's still pretty out of it. Maybe it'll sink in later." House shrugged.

"He was lucid. While he was awake, anyway." He frowned, and bounced his cane against the floor. "Was I this boring after blood loss?"

Cuddy let out a soft laugh and relaxed against the wall next to him. "I'd give good money to have you be boring for a while. And if you are bored - it's Monday. You do have a job, remember? Remember_ patients_?" House pulled a face.

"Is it my fault if no one's dying in an interesting, messy way?"

"You haven't got any new patients, then? No one who meets your impossibly high standards?" Her teasing tone was tempered with something else, something like trepidation, but for once House didn't seem to notice. He was looking into the middle distance reflectively, and just shook his head.

"Clinic?" she suggested.

"Cameron's got it covered."

"You could always catch up on the past five years paperwork." That shot some life back into him immediately.

"Wash your mouth out." He paused, and a small grin curled the edges of his mouth. "Although of course, Wilson's not going to be doing much for a while, and he does have a knack for -"

"Leave Wilson alone and do your own damn paperwork. He needs to recover. _You_ need to start justifying your presence on my payroll." She glanced up at him with a warm smile. "If you want to hide out from your team and the risk of any actual work for a little longer, you could always use this as temporary office space." House rolled his eyes.

"You do know that in any other setting, it's considered creepy to watch people sleeping?" He pushed himself away from the wall and slid the door open. "Come on. I have a vacancy for someone to buy me lunch. There's no way I'm hanging around in here to annoy Wilson if he's too zoned out to appreciate it. Where's the fun in that?"

* * *

Someone had woken him up to check him over, and someone else must have added another blanket because he was practically _buried_, in a warm, restrictive cocoon. At one point another nurse - he really hadn't given a crap what their name was by then - had woken him up and make him speak and swallow some water, and the liquid had felt glorious for a full second, before reminding his throat just how much it hurt. Then, thank God, they'd all just left him alone.

After days of wishing to surface from the haze, he suddenly wanted nothing more than to sleep, and keep sleeping, and keep putting off the moment the outside world was going to crash back in on him with all of its questions and demands. He slept on, staying fuzzy and far away, and it almost felt good.

But his sedation had been lightened, and he'd already been sleeping, or at least kept in drugged oblivion, for days. Next time he awoke, he thought vaguely, as he curled back into the pillow and unfocussed his mind, he'd have to talk, have to _think_, . . . _Next_ time he surfaced . . .

And when Wilson woke up, maybe the third or fourth time after that, it was with the kind of uncompromising snap into consciousness that he knew he couldn't argue against. His brain had to do _something_, he supposed, with vague resentment, and besides which, there was a lot of singing and shouting and laughing . . .

He blinked his eyes open, and glanced round in confusion. He'd been positioned in a slightly more upright position (when? When had these things happened?) and at some point he'd come off the O2 mask (that was good) and his left arm felt like it was made of lead (that was unquestionably _bad_, but not something he was going to dwell on right now). Now he had no idea what time or day it was, and House was sprawled out in the visitor's chair with his back to him, his legs up on the end of the bed, watching whatever the hell that was on the television. Wilson stared the screen with appalled fascination for a moment. A leggy blonde was speaking into a microphone. She lifted the back of her very tiny skirt, to reveal a very ornate tattoo leading to an even more private area of her anatomy, and the studio audience shrieked in appreciation.

He'd dragged his ass back towards the light, and this was what he got. He briefly considered closing his eyes again, but the roar from the screen extinguished all hope of that. Someone had just thrown a chair.

" . . House." And he still sounded like crap. "House --."

"I can't hear you," sang House, without turning his head. The volume bar on the tv skipped up a few notches. Wilson's repertoire of exasperated poses had been severely limited of late, so he had to settle for digging his nails into the bedding.

"_House_." As whispers went, it wasn't bad. House swivelled round in his chair and smirked. Wilson gestured angrily at him for the remote.

"I think I preferred it when you couldn't talk."

"Ass."

He handed the remote over, and Wilson lowered the volume. After a seconds pause, he flipped the channel as well.

"Killjoy." House stretched backwards lazily and knotted his hands behind his head. "You had to wake up someday. Dormice don't hibernate for that long." He passed him a cup of water, and when Wilson spoke again, he sounded a little better.

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"Don't you have a patient?" House waved a hand airily.

"Hey, I was here on my day off. I've earned some me-time." Wilson snorted and nestled back in the pillow.

"Sure. Has anyone even noticed you aren't working?"

"They're probably still reeling in shock." House narrowed his eyes. "Don't you want to know what's going on with your chemo kids?"

"Cuddy told me. Brown and . . Frost are dividing the cases." House raised his eyes to the ceiling and suppressed a sigh. Of course Wilson had already inquired after his precious patients. He'd probably used interpretative dance to question Cuddy while he'd still been on the vent.

"What time is it?"

"Time for you to talk to the cops. Cuddy's been holding them off, but they'll be on their way by now." As if on cue, Cuddy knocked on the door and stepped in. Wilson could see two figures standing just outside the room, waiting.

"Feeling better?" Wilson nodded distractedly. His mouth had gone dry again.

"You should be," House declared, getting to his feet. "She planned that outfit especially to bring a smile." He looked at Cuddy's exasperated expression, and mock-whispered, "_I think it's working!_ Don't button up now"

From how pale Wilson was, House doubted that he had enough reserves in him to blush without leading to the failure of some internal organ, but he managed a look of embarrassment and, House noted in amusement, looked pointedly at the wall instead of Cuddy's eye-grabbing cleavage. He looked set and tense.

"The detectives would like to have a word with you now, if that's ok," said Cuddy, stepping aside to let the them in. A man and a woman; they both nodded at him. Wilson cleared his throat.

"Sure." He didn't look at her, or at House, and hoped he didn't betray any agitation. His heart felt suddenly fluttery in his too-tight chest.

"We'll leave you to it," said Cuddy, with another encouraging smile. House didn't say anything, and Wilson refused to look at him. He had a horrible feeling that if he did, all his composure would be cracked right open by that hard blue stare. He just nodded again, and waited for click of the door.

They each pulled up a seat, and the friendly looking woman (_good cop_, he thought instantaneously) leaned forward and gave him a smile. His mind felt blank; he felt overwhelmingly stupid. He should have thought about it, he realised, with a sudden frozen certainty. Should have been over it already, organised everything in his mind so he could just spit out a summary and have it done with.

"Doctor Wilson, I'm Inspector Barlow, and this is Inspector Hollaway. We'd like to go over the details of what happened on Friday evening."

His side was hurting again, and he hated not being able to move his arm. But there was no good reason not to do this, he knew that. If he could just get it over with quickly -

"Sure," he said again. Wasn't this meant to be an unburdening, making it their problem? A few minutes while he looked this thing in the eye, and then he could leave it all behind him.

They were waiting for him to say something. Wilson took a deep breath, and gave them a tight smile. "Where would you like me to start?"


	8. Chapter 8

Professionalism, Wilson had decided, was the key. He told people that they were _dying_, for God's sake, on an almost daily basis; this had no right to be any more difficult. He reached for that same calm distance he had always found, and told the story as dispassionately as if it were . . .Well, a story. 

_There were three of them_; he gave brief descriptions. _Stabbed once in the shoulder, once in the abdomen_; (that was pretty damn obvious, but he didn't want to look squeamish over details). _They took my wallet; tried to take my car_. All the facts they could need, laid out clearly and chronologically, while he tried to ignore the infuriatingly nice smiles of the Detective, her constant manner of _putting him at his ease,_ perfected by police officers and oncologists alike. He recognised_ that_ routine. He was so used to the playing the opposite role that it threw him; not to mention the fact that she seemed to assume that he was teetering on the brink of some emotional break-down. The notion flooded him with a rush of resentment, and he met her reassurances with the obstinate resolution to remain as detached as possible.

And so, for the benefit of the detectives, he dialled the ambulance again; he made the same garbled plea to the operator which, although he couldn't exactly remember the details, must have been coherent enough. He described the man falling down, the others running away, and how he had blacked out on the whole sorry experience. _Done._ He felt shaky with relief, and the strange, secret sensation that he'd gotten away with something.

But the detectives showed no signs of leaving. His stomach sank.

"Do you feel well enough to answer a couple of questions, Doctor Wilson? Just for our own clarification?"

_He's upstairs_, thought Wilson sourly, _you want directions to the right floor?_ He gave a nod, and wondered how long they could get away with questioning him. Hopefully, he still looked like crap. He certainly felt like it.

"You said you went directly from the synagogue to the parking lot, is that right? But you didn't actually attend the service?"

"I arrived late," said Wilson, feeling stupid. He wished his voice sounded stronger. He sounded weak and incapable; it was only encouraging the blonde to lean closer, look kinder. _Go away_, he willed. He knew he should be happy that they wanted to do something about what had happened, but he just felt edgy. The way that man was looking at him: it was like being peered at under a microscope. Examined and catalogued at his most pathetic.

"So you were the only person to leave the building at that time? You didn't notice anyone else - a member of the congregation, or - ?"

"I didn't see anyone. Everyone was inside," he repeated, tamping down his irritation. The man, who had shown all the charisma and acumen of a breeze-block thus far, nodded significantly.

"So you didn't notice anyone in or around the building? No one hanging around on the way to the lot, anyone who may have been following you?"

"What? No. No, I told you, I didn't see anyone. I didn't see anyone until I turned around, and they were there."

"Thinking back, do you think it's possible that you _were_ followed from outside the parking lot?" pressed Detective Barlow gently.

_If I'd noticed, I wouldn't _be _here!_ he nearly shouted. He stared at her mulishly until she looked away, and decided to change tactics. "They asked you for the PIN codes to your credit cards."

"Yes - well, I didn't have much money. Forty dollars, maybe." He _had _thought that was weird, he remembered. Detective Barlowe nodded wordlessly, and Wilson felt a jolt like a punch to his stomach. _She thinks they planned to kill me_, he realised. _From the beginning; she thinks_ - he could feel his blood pressure rising; he could suddenly feel the hands squirming their way through his clothing; the casual way the guy had jabbed the blade through skin and nerve and muscle -

He slammed down on the memory like a linebacker. _Not here_, he thought, suddenly hyper-conscious of the pulse-ox and display screen. He swallowed, and willed his exhausted body back under his control.

Detective Hollaway cleared his throat and, finally, addressed Wilson himself.

"You mentioned that the men made certain comments to you that were . . . anti-semitic in their nature," he said, in an infuriatingly ponderous tone. "Detective Barlow and I are trying to determine whether the attack was racially motivated and planned. Do you recall the details of anything they said to you, any details, that would suggest this wasn't simply a spur-of-the-moment mugging?"

Wilson clamped down on the rush of panic threatening to overspill in his chest. Now they wanted him to examine the details? _Reflect_ on his experiences? "I don't know," he managed stiffly. He wasn't going to sink into the mire now, not when he'd successfully waded through the whole damn thing in front of this idiot cop who was looking at him like he was . . . _fragile._

"Can you remember anything that was said? Any specific words, or -"

"You want me to quote?" he asked incredulously. "I said, _I don't remember_." Something about his flat denial clearly wasn't ringing true, so he relented and sighed, "There was something - something about my car. They said it was typical I'd have a . . . a nice car." Their faces remained closed and sceptical, and Wilson found himself raising his one hand in a dismissive, uncertain gesture.

"It wasn't like - it might have been a guess, I mean - it just seemed to be synonymous with, as an insult, to them. Not personal, not like they'd _planned_ anything - "

Neither of them showed any change in expression. His voice was cracking on every other word now; he reached for the cup and fumbled it towards his lips, determinedly not looking at them. _Bastards_, he thought vaguely, not entirely sure to whom the obscenity was aimed.

"The man we currently have under arrest, for example," probed Hollaway in a droning, pushy monotone, "the one who -"

Wilson had to interrupt, had to cut him off _right now_. His whispering got louder, and his voice sounded higher in his own ears, and he could hear his coolness melting around him, but he couldn't stop himself speaking with as much force as he could muster -

"Look, I got robbed, it was a - an _event_ that happened, ok? I've told you what happened, I've told you everything I can remember about what happened, but I can't explain the - the _psychology_ behind it! _I don't know_ what they wanted." He knew he sounded desperate, and flushed in fury.

"Of course," said Barlowe soothingly. She rose to her feet, and Wilson realised with a mixture of relief and self-disgust that she wasn't going to push him in his current state. "We just need to have a clear idea of what took place, what charges to press against the people involved. You've been extremely helpful." Wilson was still breathing too hard; he could feel his heart pummelling his ribs and each beat resonated with a hot stab through his shoulder. He saw Hollaway throw a glance at the monitors, and clenched his jaw.

"We'll let you get some rest, Doctor Wilson. Thank you for being so co-operative." He just stared, sure his cheeks were flaming, as they withdrew to the corridor, and shut the door with a patronisingly gentle bump.

He was on his own again; left on his own with an ambush of recollections that had been forced out of him, a legally sanctioned hit and run. He stared at his hand where it lay shaking on the blanket, and fought the urge to scream.

He'd looked like an idiot; he hadn't let himself dwell on a single detail of Friday night, and he'd _still_ managed to embarrass himself and act like a frightened fucking kid instead of a doctor who dealt with death on a day-to-day basis. With an angry grunt, he dug his head back into the pillow and turned away from the door, as a wave of humiliation crashed over him and his stupid, aching body and his utterly broken attempt at poise.

With any luck, he'd never have to see or speak to them again.

* * *

The detectives drew together as soon as they stepped out of the hospital room, and House saw the female officer murmur something to her partner. The man shrugged impassively, and muttered something in a low tone he couldn't catch, but that that seemed to end with the word "jumpy." He narrowed his eyes.

"Hey!" The woman looked up in mild surprise at this summons; the man looked unimpressed, nodded to his colleague, and continued on towards the stairwell. _Where cripples dare not tread_, House noted with interest. _Cold bastard_. He cornered his remaining target with an air of determination.

"Finished interrogating Wilson?" The woman looked at him appraisingly.

"Doctor House, isn't it? Doctor Wilson has been extremely helpful. I believe he's resting now."

"Yeah, but you've got everything you need to go ahead and officially charge the guy?" demanded House.

He looked at her expectantly, eyebrows raised, before finally rolling his eyes with his usual, resigned, _everyone's a moron_ expression.

"_Well_? I'm not some hack with a microphone, I'm his best friend. He's already told me everything," he said, with absolutely sincerity. _At least this way, Wilson would be saved that trouble_. "What's Smith, or whatever his name is, looking at?"

She gave him a cool little smile, unimpressed by his tactics, but to his relief she explained anyway. "As it stands, we can charge him with aggravated assault and robbery. The fact that he lied about his role in proceedings, has showed no sign of remorse, and is refusing to identify the other men involved - he's already looking at a long stretch." She paused for a second, and glanced down at her notepad.

"Detective Hollaway and I have reason to believe that he may have been involved in a series of similar attacks over the past two years. If we can successfully establish a connection, . . . Doctor Wilson's evidence is a little hazy on some points, but there is a possibility we could be upping the charges to Assault with Intent to Commit Murder," she said calmly. "If we can prove intent, bring it to trial as a hate crime, he'd be looking at a more severe penalty."

She watched those vivid blue eyes widen, and frowned. "You said Doctor Wilson had already been through - "

He cleared his throat awkwardly and nodded, but she couldn't help noticing the sudden pallor that drained his complexion; the tension that seemed to be bundled up in every line of his posture. "Hate crime," he said slowly, trying to make it sound like a casual request for clarification rather than the screaming _what the fuck?_ it so clearly was.

It worked, too. Weren't these people meant to be perceptive? Detective Barlowe nodded, and clipped the pad back into her pocket. "If we can prove the motive, that the incident was pre-meditated, or at least that Doctor Wilson was unknowingly pursued - then yes. Doctor Wilson's testimony was certainly suggestive. We'll have to come back for another, fuller statement another time." She flashed him a brief smile and excused herself, radiating an aura of busy efficiency. House stared, unseeing, at her retreating back, while the gears in his head churned furiously.

He moved forwards until he was next to Wilson's hospital room. The blinds were still drawn - he sidled closer, and glanced through the slats. He could see the back of his friend's head, his free arm resting on top of the blanket. He didn't know what he expected to see; some flash of illumination would be nice.

Wilson was probably sleeping. He'd already been cornered by the cops; House hadn't missed the rabbit-in-the-headlights expression when they'd arrived outside his room._ Cornered_ - the word bounced around his mind for a moment. _Pursued._ He felt reluctant to invade just yet.

A hand tapped his shoulder, and he spun round distractedly. It took him several seconds to actually focus on Cameron and her outstretched hand, dangling a set of keys.

"I moved Wilson's car. It's in the hospital lot," she said. "The cops seem to have finished with it."

"Thanks," he muttered, pocketing them, staring at the floor. She was still standing there, he realised with irritation. She'd told him '_mugging_.' He needed to think. He thought he'd had the shape of what had happened; apparently,_ again_, he'd been all wrong.

"They haven't taken Harvey into custody," she said, looking at him in her nauseatingly earnest way. He blinked. His brain didn't seem to be connecting things the right way.

"What?"

"Mr. Harvey. Smith - it turns out that wasn't his name." House stared at her for a second, before setting off down the corridor. No time for this.

"He's too sick to leave the hospital," she said, pacing behind him. "Even a transfer -"

"Good," snapped House. "Keep him sick."

"I - thought you said you wanted him out," said Cameron, looking puzzled. House tried to re-engage with the current conversation.

"Yeah. I did," he covered. "But as he _can't_ leave, he can stay sick until Wilson's discharged. Maybe a little longer." He wheeled into the elevator and jabbed the button, relieved when Cameron remained hovering in the corridor opposite him. "There's enough lunatics wandering around the hospital already," he said, by way of clarification. "Long as he's here, he doesn't leave his bed. And cut his morphine," he shouted as an afterthought. He caught a glimpse of Cameron making an exasperated face, and then suggestions of his own form sliding over cold metal as the doors pulled together. He stared at his reflection; it was as if he was seeing himself through several feet of water, dissolving and beading together with every movement. It looked nothing like him.

He tilted his head, and let his gaze turn inward. There was a picture to assemble here, half hidden, just below the surface. He needed to think.

And then, he needed to talk to Wilson.


	9. Chapter 9

**Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed this story! I hope you all enjoy this chapter; it's where things get a little more complicated:**

* * *

Wilson gazed around his hospital room with a new sense of appreciation. Sitting upright: it made all the difference. Compared to the last few days of staring hopelessly up at nurses, cops and visitors, he suddenly felt master of his own world again - albeit a reduced and rather tedious world, that consisted mainly of watching daytime soaps and the path of the sun as it moved across his window. All those things - being drugged, incapable, voiceless,_ helpless_, - that had made him feel taut and skittish since his admission were steadily fading with the speed of his recovery. He'd managed drinking, sitting, even walking for a few wobbling seconds that morning; he'd graduated to the less stupefying brand of painkillers - and now eating was next on the list. He glanced impatiently at the door. 

Of course, on the down side, everything still hurt like a bitch, and he was always slightly too cold, and anything beyond wielding a remote tended to wipe him out for a good half-hour. And then there was his arm.

He couldn't move his right arm too well, because of the unsettling feeling he got whenever he stretched it that his side might tear open beneath his aching ribs. That was annoying. But his _left _arm -- He glanced down ruefully at the newest addition to his wardrobe that had been fitted painfully that morning. It was less like a sling than a straitjacket. His left bicep was pinioned to his side by a strap that wound tightly around his torso, with his forearm secured across the front of his chest and further immobilised by a diagonal strip reaching from wrist to shoulder. His fingers curled uselessly against his chest, and he noticed how oddly vulnerable they looked set against the sturdy restraints; like a crab that had been exposed and robbed of its shell.

Wilson had already guessed he'd have to come back at some point (when he wasn't still healing from two other surgical scars, he'd decided) for surgery to repair the tendons that had been damaged in his shoulder, but he'd been too dazed from the morphine to connect the prickling in his fingers with the nerve damage that caused it. _Lesions to the brachial plexus_, he recalled, remembering how the woman (neuromuscular specialist - he had no idea what distant recesses of the hospital Cuddy had conjured her from,) had held his hand in her own and gently probed his fingers in search of numbness. He thought of his patients in remission, knowing the odds of the cells mutating again, the tumours re-growing, and the futile, fervent hopes that their bodies wouldn't turn against them. Maybe the nerves would regenerate and his hand would be fine, and he'd write and grip and flip people off as well as ever. Or maybe not.

A paper bag flew through the doorway and landed on his lap, showering crumbs. Wilson looked up with a glare.

"Happy? I walked all the way down to the cafeteria, queued for ten minutes behind Cuddy's newest batch of babbling interns, and then came all the way back up here, so _you _don't have to eat jello like the proles," griped House, entering the room with a slightly overwrought limp and collapsing into the chair by his bed.

"Beautifully served," said Wilson sardonically, but he was too hungry to lodge further complaint against House's style of delivery. He attacked the wrapping as enthusiastically as his one hand would allow him. Thank _God_ that they were letting him _eat_, and that he'd actually succeeded in cajoling House into playing hunter-gatherer and foraging for something fit for human consumption. He unearthed a sandwich; it looked bland next to House's meal, but at least it wasn't neon or gelatinous.

House looked at him in amusement. "Would you calm down? I have no intention of performing a tracheotomy when you start choking. I just sat down."

"I've been buying you lunches for years," said Wilson, in the pause between bites. "Minor surgery is the least you could do in compensation."

"And now I've bought you one back," said House, his tone of voice clearly suggesting that the debt had thus been paid.

"Yes. All it took was my near-death and the fact I'm tied to a bed," said Wilson drily.

"Ingrate."

They chewed in companionable silence for a while, House commandeering the remote while Wilson basked in the joys of consumption.

"You're not." Wilson blinked.

" . . Care to elaborate?"

"You're not. Tied to the bed anymore. They removed the cath, right?" he added, ignoring the immediate rush of colour flooding Wilson's exasperated face. "Aren't you bored in here? You've been watching the _weather channel_." Wilson shrugged.

"There's nothing on. Daytime programming sucks."

"But seriously? The weather channel?"

"Well, I was considering a trip down to Broadway, maybe take in a show," said Wilson waspishly, "and then I remembered that I've just had _major surgery_."

"Let's take a road-trip."

"_Now_ is the time you try to talk me into going to Vegas? I'd say your timing's a little off."

"I'll grab a wheelchair." Wilson looked at him suspiciously. "Cuddy needs to think I'm entertaining you or she'll slam me in the clinic faster than you can say 'she-devil'," explained House. "And this place is boring."

"Right. You're bored. It must be very hard for you." House hopped up with surprising agility and vanished from the room. A few moments later, he returned with a wheelchair and what Wilson would categorise as a distinctly dangerous look of anticipation. He eyed the thing with trepidation and shook his head.

" --- Nooo," he said firmly. House looked outraged.

"Why the hell not? Haven't the ceiling tiles lost their entertainment value yet?"

"I'm not letting you shanghai me!" said Wilson incredulously. "House, I can hardly walk!"

"_Wheelchair_!"

"If you're bored -"

"Oh, like you aren't," snorted House. "Hop in." Wilson didn't budge, glowering at him obstinately. "What do you think I'm going to do? If you want, I'll let you drive." He smirked perversely. "Of course, you only have one arm, so I'd just be watching you go round in circles for a while, but - "

"We go to my office," said Wilson adamantly. "You push where I tell you. No detours, no fellows, no anyone." He _was_ bored; even when regarded from new and exciting angles in his upright state, his room only held so much interest to the keen observer. But being wheeled through the hospital like an invalid -- _What else are you?_ he wondered crossly. _It's not like you haven't seen other people being pushed around a thousand times before, it's not like there's anything to be ashamed of . . ._

House knew he'd won; he parked the chair by the bed.

"Need a hand?" At Wilson's shake, he drew the blinds while Wilson glanced at the chair dubiously, and nudged the pulse-ox from his finger. He'd had his meds pretty recently, so he should be ok for a while -

"Come on, come on." House looked like he was performing some sort of heist, eyeing the corridors nervously, and Wilson stifled a groan. He'd finally regained some autonomy, and he was basically handing it over to_ House_ of all people, against every practical instinct. But it was too late now; he managed to lower himself stiffly into the chair while the room span briefly, and surrendered himself to the situation.

_Would he go past the room where Shirty was being kept?_ The thought popped into his head unannounced and shocked him for a moment, filling him with the urge to dive back into the bed. He shook himself. Shirty was under guard; it was a ridiculous fear, he told himself scoldingly. _Not to mention_, whispered a shameful but not entirely unwelcome voice in his head, _the fact that you know there's no way House is going to take you within fifty feet of him._

House, looking unnervingly gleeful, snatched a blanket from the bed and shoved it in his lap, before thrusting the cane into his hand and seizing the handles.

"I don't need -"

"Then just hold on to it. I'm not getting a lecture off one of the nurses for letting Jimmy catch cold." He pushed Wilson through the doorway, and shouted at the nearest nurse (_Alicia_, Wilson remembered, wincing): "I'm stealing your patient. I'll return him in a couple of hours. Don't tell Cuddy." And they were off.

It was weird, travelling along the busy corridors as a passenger, weaving left and right around people at someone else's whim, and Wilson was surprised to find himself slightly nervous. He gripped House's cane tightly in his good hand, and tried to focus on the fact that, for the first time in days, he wasn't in that room, he wasn't static and silent, - and he definitely wasn't bored.

Stupidly, he wasn't even suspicious, until it was too late. House pushed him into an empty elevator and pressed the down button, whistling in a parody of innocence. Wilson did a double take.

"What - _House_! My office is _up_! You said -"

"Your office is boring. What are we going to do there,_ paperwork_?" Wilson twisted round in his chair and jabbed the right button, but it was too late: they were moving.

"I mean it, I said - " Maybe he sounded more panicked than he intended, because House lost the flippant air and interrupted him.

"I promise, if you decide you still want to go to your office, we'll turn back. Just enjoy the ride." Wilson gripped the wheel in a death grip to halt their progress.

"Where are we going?" he demanded.

"Unless the floor has moved, I'd say this is NICU." Wilson let go in surprise, although he had no idea what answer he'd expected, and House immediately set off again.

"Is there any point in asking where we're going, or are you just going to lie to me?" he asked peevishly, trying his best to relax back against the seat again.

"Jeez, I'm not going to roll you off a balcony. Anyway, we're here." They had pulled up in front of the OB/GYN lounge. Wilson furrowed his brow. "What - ?" There was a sign hanging from the door handle that stated, in official looking letters: CURRENTLY IN USE: CONFERENCE IN PROGRESS. PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB.

House reached for the door handle, and Wilson's stomach froze in horror, as in his mind a long table unrolled, edged with cold faces staring at him in his hospital gown, strapped up and nearly shivering.

"House, _no _- !" And he was pushed through the doorway.

The room was deserted. There was just the sofa, and the tv, closed blinds and warm radiators, and a small stack of dvds balanced precariously on the arm of a chair. House clicked the door shut stealthily behind him, and stepped forward triumphantly into the room. "Told you it wouldn't be so bad," he said cheerfully, while Wilson unclenched his grip on the cane and felt the feeling rush back into his limbs. He gaped at House as he swivelled round and shoved the pile of movies onto Wilson's lap, grinning at him triumphantly. "See? Widescreen!"

* * *

Hopefully, none of the nurses would complain to Cuddy about House's guerrilla conference for at least another couple of hours. House grinned at his own handiwork. Wilson's indignation had died away the moment he'd started inspecting the dvds House had thieved from around the hospital, and for once he hadn't voiced any displeasure over House's blatant thwarting of hospital protocol. Three solid days of rain forecasts and cold fronts would make the best of men abandon their principles.

He'd magnanimously let Wilson choose the film - some black and white thing, with perfectly coiffed men and glamorous Hollywood women. Against his own tastes, he'd already purged the pile of the gorier thrillers that he'd uncovered - probably best to avoid the bloodbaths for now, he'd reasoned. Wilson, still in the wheelchair, now adjusted to its most laid-back setting, was watching the movie avidly. Apart from the occasional grimace every time he seemed to remember that he had the shoulder immobiliser on, and the fact that he was still draped in the blanket despite House having maxed out the thermostat, Wilson was actually looking -- like himself.

Movie night had always been the best time to broach a topic with Wilson. House shifted on the sofa, and kept his eyes fixed on the screen. He cleared his throat with an impressive approximation of casualness and asked;

"So how'd it go with the cops?"

"Watching, here." _Damn_. Wilson didn't take his eyes off the tv.

"Come on, you've seen this movie what, fifteen times? You know how it ends; it's not like you actually need to pay attention." Wilson looked up, and House suddenly realised, with a burst of horror and a flashback to one of their more recent Hitchcock marathons, that he had laid the perfect path for Wilson to embark upon one of his 'Classic Cinema' lectures. "Forget it! Watch the damn movie." Wilson smirked.

House managed to keep his fidgeting to a minimum for the rest of the film, sneaking the occasional glance at Wilson, who was looking steadily more tired, but enthralled.

House went cold at the very idea of a Cameron-esque heart to heart. He didn't want to talk about the details of this; he didn't even want to think about it, although he hadn't really been able to stop himself. The idea of Wilson in a knife fight was so utterly incongruous it verged on comical, and had inevitably led to House speculating about a dozen different scenarios, all of which were absurd and unsettling and unravelled without a trace of humour on the canvas of his imagination. But there was something uncomfortable about Wilson's continued silence on the matter of what had apparently been an attempted murder. And also, (who was he kidding? _Most of all_) the picture was incomplete, and House _always_ wanted to know; and now he had the added mystery of wondering if James "you need to talk about this" Wilson _didn't _want him to know, and if that was true, he wanted to know _why _. . .

Finally the credits rolled. "Well?"

Shrug. "It went fine." House looked expectant, and Wilson rolled his eyes. "I know this will be difficult for you to understand, but when you haven't actually committed any crime, there's no reason for the cops to get you worried."

"You remember all the details they needed?"

"I said, it was fine. I just - told them what happened."

"What were you doing there anyway? You never go to that part of town."

Wilson shifted in the chair and looked put-upon. "I was just - driving around. Late night shopping."

_Liar._ House had googled the area as soon as he'd got back to his office after speaking to the cops. No gay bars, no cross-dressing communities, definitely not a mall in sight, but there _had_ been a temple about two minutes walk from the parking lot. _Hate crime._ Unlikely as it seemed, nothing else made sense, and as much as anyone getting stabbed for who they were _could_ make sense, the whole situation seemed doubly weird when you applied it to Wilson. Since his birth and bar mitzah, it was an element of his character that had just slipped into the background, a single pixel on the page that made up the grand vista of Wilson's screwed-up self. It was as much an aside as having brown eyes or expensive taste in shoes, and now suddenly it seemed it was the trigger behind all of this; all he had been and all that had mattered in this one stupid evening.

(_But then, there was the temple. When the hell had Wilson gotten religion?_)

"You don't _shop_, unless it's buying crap for other people. Anyway, what did happen?"

"I got mugged," said Wilson harshly, as if he was stating the obvious, "what do you _think _happened? I'd have thought it was pretty self explanatory."

"Did you put up a fight or something? Insult the guy's mother?" Wilson's expression changed to that flushed look that was half embarrassment and half anger.

"No, I didn't _put up a fight_ to the three angry guys who were armed, ok? I gave them the money." House looked slightly appeased, but didn't relent. A near-death experience might have stretched him to buy lunch, but it would take a hell of a lot more than that to introduce sensitivity into his repertoire.

"Good. Glad to hear it. I'm just saying - for a guy who went without a fuss, the stabbing seems like overkill."

"Well I'm sorry if it offends your sense of logic," snapped Wilson. "I know this has probably ruined your plans for the week and now you're itching to call me a moron, but I'm afraid this wasn't actually my fault. I mean," his right hand gestured in the familiar, furious way, and his voice rose slightly like when House had him cornered on some issue - his fidelity or flirtations, - "do you think I asked for this? You think it was personal?"

"No," House said carefully. "Of course not. It just - doesn't make much sense."

"Well, they didn't either. It just happened," said Wilson firmly, looking slightly mollified by House's tone. "People aren't reasonable, remember? They don't need reasons to act like _asses_," he said pointedly, "they probably weren't even thinking. Isn't that a basic tenet of your entire belief system?"

"I think it's more like _people are morons_," muttered House. "But yeah, I see your point."

Apparently satisfied by this admission, Wilson relaxed back against the chair back and starting pressing buttons on the remote. He didn't seem aware of the fact House was looking at him warily, unsure of where to go next. Wilson's grimace decided that for him.

"Meds wearing off?" Wilson nodded glumly.

"Shoulder. I can't believe I have to wear this thing until the nerves have healed," he grumbled.

House decided not to comment on his optimism; from what he'd seen in Wilson's file, (he'd had a leisurely read through earlier once he'd been certain Wilson was asleep) it was more of a hopeful 'if' than a definite 'when'. House was more than happy to not have to bewail the issue if Wilson had decided he didn't want to talk about it.

"Drugs it is." House popped a Vicodin with relish. "Let's go. That nurse is going to be wondering where I've stashed you by now anyway."

"Alicia," corrected Wilson, as he pivoted round to face the door.

"First name terms already?" crowed House. "I _knew_ it! I told you -" The door opened, and they both froze, exchanging looks of guilty apprehension.

"Conference over?" asked Cuddy scathingly. She strode in, arms crossed, and House fought the urge to smirk. The sign _had_ been a neat piece of improvisation.

"Sorry, patient needs his meds," he said briskly, grabbing the chair and moving forward. "Love to stay and chat, but the patient comes first, you know me - " Below him, Wilson was endeavouring to look as much like a kidnap victim as possible in the face of Cuddy's exasperated glare.

"While I'm glad you're feeling better, is there any chance you wouldn't mind convalescing in your actual room?"

"Give the man a break," said House. "He's spent a week staring at the walls in there. He's got cabin fever." Unimpressed, but amused despite herself, Cuddy shook her head.

"Whatever. The staff want their lounge back." She held the door open as Wilson was pushed out into the corridor. He looked slightly self-conscious, House noted, now that Cuddy was here. Maybe the next time House was bored he could wheel him to the nurses' station and clamp him in front of the hot blonde's desk; _that _might be fun to watch.

Cuddy turned away from whatever she'd been saying to Wilson, and fixed House with strict look. "When you've taken James to his room - with no detours - I need a word in my office." House opened his mouth to protest, but Cuddy shook her head, and something in her expression made him stop. She looked . . . strained.

She turned back to Wilson, and gave him a too-nice smile. _Was she still feeling guilty over the mistake with Smith?_ "I'll see you later. _You_ - ten minutes." She walked away into the bustle of the hospital, and Wilson exhaled.

"That went . . . pretty well."

"Only because she can't yell at the invalid with all these potential donors standing round. I might have to start using you as a human shield."

In spite of Wilson's snort of amusement, something tightened in House's stomach, and joined in with the chorus of unsolved questions chiming around his brain. Something was niggling in his head; something that he hadn't been paying attention to in the confusion of the last few days, but that been building and developing in the background, and was now trying to make itself heard.

* * *

Having deposited Wilson back in bed, where he'd fallen to sleep with impressive alacrity, House made his way towards Cuddy's office, with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner approaching the gallows. He'd known he couldn't get away with doing nothing for much longer, and now the clinic loomed ominously in his mind, casting its germ-spattered, vomit-ridden shadow over the rest of his week.

"Wilson made me do it!" he announced, bursting through her office doors. Cuddy looked up from her desk and rolled her eyes.

"This is nothing to do with your little stunt upstairs, although yes,_ thank you_ for enraging an entire floor of my staff with a fictional conference." She smiled. "Wilson's feeling better?"

"All thanks to my excursion," said House, realising he was somehow off the hook.

"It was really nice of you - to do that for him," she said. House felt a pinch of guilt in his stomach, and shrugged airily.

"Don't thank me. I only do it because I care."

Cuddy didn't smile at his sarcasm, and House noticed she still looked pale. "Sit down." He didn't, but he approached her desk and stared at her, watching her shift awkwardly under his gaze. "Would you stop looking at me like I'm a tumour on a PET scan?" she snapped. "We need to talk."

"About all of the unresolved sexual tension between us?" asked House sympathetically. She didn't even give him one of her 'looks.' _Interesting._

"No. About . . . your patient."

"I don't have a patient," he said, treading carefully. If Cuddy was going to use his recent inactivity as an excuse to foist one of her rich clients on him --

"You do now. At least, -" _She was equivocating?_ House stared harder, noticing her steadfastly looking anywhere but his face. Cuddy didn't beat around the bush, she ordered. And then he ignored her. That was their time-honoured tradition. This was un-chartered territory.

"I'm hoping you'll agree with me that --" She stopped, and exhaled, and finally looked him dead in the eye. "It's Harvey," she said firmly.

The coils of suspicion in House's brain looped together and, in a long chain of circumstance, House saw the past week unroll behind him - Chase, Foreman, Cameron, all talking to him, all ignored . . .

"Harvey." He looked away. He looked back. She was still there, still appealing to him. Apparently, she was serious.

He wrinkled his brow in faux-concentration. "That would be the artist formerly known as Smith, right? Lied to the cops, lied to the staff, tried to off your department head." He kept his tone level and inquiring.

"House, I know --"

"Then that would be _no_. Nice talking to you." He turned to leave, before whatever his brain was thinking had a chance to burst out of his mouth in a corrosive stream. He didn't even want to yell, because he didn't know what to say; (_except that he _always_ knew what to say, and yet now he didn't even know why Wilson was lying to him, or why he'd nearly bled to death on some oil-slicked floor last week_). A bubble was slowly widening inside his chest, shuddering and engorging and going to erupt, bypassing thought and emotion and stemming from some inner instinct that made him feel edgy and _furious_, with Cuddy and Wilson and Harvey and everyone, stretching him in every direction at once.

"House - "

"Look at you." He gave a strange half-laugh, hearing the malice in it, but not caring. "You can't believe you're asking me this. You know I'm going to say no, you _want_ me to say no. You're not fooling anyone." He reached for the door handle.

"House - "

"_What?!_" He saw her flinch, and felt a rush of savage pleasure. He suddenly felt like he'd been building towards this conversation for days, without realising it; it had been dancing in the corners of his vision, and hers too, while they'd both looked aside.

Cuddy looked upset; but as ever, when presented with a fight, she hardened. "He's dying."

"Good."

She grabbed his arm as he moved for the door, trapping him. "Chase and Foreman have been on this _since his admission_. They're out of ideas! I'm out of ideas! This is what you _do_!" She met his eyes. "Foreman's been demanding it from the beginning but now even _Chase_ is asking for your involvement, and he's terrified of the idea! I wouldn't ask, unless . . . He's too weak to be transferred, I've got no one else even half-way qualified to deal with this, there's no one I can call in instead . . . And you _are _the Head of the Department of Diagnostics. It's -- your job. If people find out you refused to look at his case because you didn't _like_ him - the hospital would be in trouble, we could get _sued_ --"

"Yeah, you can't be too careful when it comes to litigation," said House, his voice sharp with acrimony. "If only he'd killed Wilson - we could have just used his salary for the next fifteen years to settle."

_Now_ Cuddy was pissed. She shook off his arm like it was crawling with lice and stormed back into the middle of the room, looking on the brink of an explosion.

"No! You do not get to make this about _you_, House, you're not making me into the bad guy! We both know it's not that simple. I care about Wilson as much as you do, but I have a duty to this hospital, and every patient inside it, and so do you!"

"That's crap! Why the hell should I help this guy? He's a liar, he's a criminal, he may have _maimed_ Wilson - even if this wasn't personal, why the hell would I go around treating patients who spend their free time spearing other people with knives?!"

"Oh, don't give me that, don't give me _ethics_," she snorted. "You don't give a crap about who you treat; Death Row guy, priests, orphans, you treat _everyone_ like crap and you insist that _everyone_ you treat lies. It's _completely_ personal, which is why you're going to have to disregard it. Cure him, send him to jail, get him tried _by law_." She sighed and put her hands on her hips, trying to sound more conciliatory. "You'll be moving justice along. End his 'holiday in the ICU'."

House felt as if they had been arguing for much longer than they had; he felt as tired as Wilson looked, and from some weird sense of premonition, he felt beaten before he had started. For a moment last week, he'd have done anything to have Wilson's heart start beating again - and now he was here, having this conversation about the man who had done it. The memory made him feel sick. He didn't say anything and stared at the carpet, wondering where his anger had gone.

"I'm not asking you to send him a fruit basket and a Get Well card," said Cuddy. "I'm asking you to see if you can intervene in what could be a preventable death. Treat him like any other patient - you won't even meet him. Just look at his chart, throw that weird ball around your office, have some ideas. Wilson doesn't have to know," she added, a pang of guilt shooting across her face. "Plus, the symptoms are _bizarre_," she added, and House felt something flare in his gut at the hope in her voice that _that_ might be the thing that swung it for her.

"If I treat this guy," he said, trying to sound aggressive, "and he dies, do you really think that's going to solve your litigation problems? What makes you think I might not _accidentally_ give him an overdose as soon as I get my hands on a syringe?"

Cuddy gave him a sympathetic smile, as if to suggest the very notion was absurd, and carried on as if he hadn't spoken.

"You cure people. So that they can get on with whatever they were doing before they got sick. Whether that's to go home to a wife and three kids, or to go and do time for a crime they committed - That's what you're good at. You don't hand out justice." There was a sort of unspoken confidence in her words as she looked at him that made him feel better and worse at the same time. "Foreman and Chase are desperate."

"That's because they're idiots," said House. Everything that had been fermenting and boiling inside him seemed to have collapsed back in on itself, and left him feeling oddly muted. "Would you be so keen to cure this lunatic if it was _you_? If Wilson had died?"

She recognised the questions for the hypothetical barbs they were, and didn't answer. "You'll look over the case?"

He didn't say anything. "House, are you ok? What's the real reason you're so against this?"

House gave her a sardonic frown, but his eyes betrayed a flash of something deeper at her question. "You don't consider the fact he nearly exsanguinated a colleague a good enough reason?"

"No." She narrowed her eyes and walked closer to him again, and the absolute certainty in her tone shocked him. If he was anyone else, he'd be offended.

"You're probably curious about the type of man who does this," she murmured, looking at him in a way he didn't like at all. "You'd probably have barged into his room at some point anyway, if not to bully him for what he did to Wilson, then to check him out, get some answers. Now you can get all the answers you like." She was only a foot away from him now, and he wondered when he'd lost the upper hand. _All the answers you like_. He felt a sick swirl of guilt unfurl in his stomach.

"You're not mad at me for asking you," she accused gently. "You're not even mad at the idea; it's unfortunate, but you know this hospital has to run the way it does. Who are you mad at?"

"I'll think about it," he said, mainly to stop her talking. He couldn't think at the moment, he hadn't been thinking clearly for days. He needed to go home, away from Cuddy and Wilson, and have a drink.

"Yourself? Wilson?" She tried to force eye contact, and he rolled his eyes half-heartedly. "Is everything ok with you two?"

"Everything's fine." House grabbed the door handle and, unmolested at last, opened it. Cuddy suddenly looked nauseatingly guilty again; probably because she knew she'd won.

"House, I know this is a - _horrible_ situation. And I wasn't saying -- " He raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't implying you care more about the puzzle than Wilson. That's not what I was saying." House shrugged.

"Why not? If I take this case - that is, if I do have a choice," he spat, "that's pretty much what_ I'll_ be saying, right? That, and the fact that I'm a true _professional_." He met her wide, unhappy eyes and shrugged. "Hell, you're probably right. Answers over people." His voice was flat and resigned. "That sounds exactly like me."


	10. Chapter 10

**Thank you very much to people who have reviewed this story - as ever, feedback is greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy this update:**

* * *

With a certain amount of satisfaction, House drew a black, squeaking line through the word on the whiteboard.

"Alright, so it's not Lupus. We still need something that explains both the kidney fai -"

"You're unbelievable!"

Under normal circumstances, House would have greeted this proclamation with a leer. Today he stared at his own reflection in the shiny plastic surface, before turning around wearily. Chase and Foreman were shifting awkwardly in their seats, exchanging glances that suggested similar words had already been levelled at them some time earlier.

"I see you finally decided to drop by," observed House. "Of course, it would have been nice to see an Immunologist _before_ the patient's immune system was shot to hell, but now we'll just have blame that on these two." Chase and Foreman looked affronted.

"I've been in the clinic, working _your_ hours," said Cameron coldly. She had her hair tied up in a professional-looking bun, her eyes sharp and her expression brimming with righteousness as she moved in from the doorway. House automatically reached for his pills. "And I thought that -- You have no patients all week, you don't treat _anyone_ for days and _this_ is your new case?!"

He needed coffee. He needed to not have this conversation, but Cameron was going to be like a droopy-eyed dog with a bone until they did, so House pretended he was contemplating the question while he twirled the marker-pen between his fingers.

"Unless you can find me a worthier citizen dying at a competitive rate. I take it from your death glare that you object?"

"Yes, I object! I can't believe you don't!" said Cameron, staring at him in betrayed amazement. Concern and suspicion crept into her voice; "Is Cuddy putting you up to this? Why would you agree to --"

"You don't have to like him, you just have to treat him," pointed out Chase, ever the first of his fellows to defend the position of the coldly, calculatingly cowardly. "You can't just let him die."

House wondered briefly if he preferred Chase's deference to Cameron's tight-lipped superiority, and decided that _yes_, right now, trapped back in this debate, he did.

"This is a little stronger than like and dislike!" Cameron said incredulously. "He attacked a colleague, a friend of ours, and . . . And left him to bleed to death in a parking-lot!"

"Unfortunately," said House, "that doesn't give _us _the right to let this guy bleed to death internally in a hospital bed." He wrinkled his forehead and looked at her inquiringly. "Sorry, you did just say you were against the whole 'leaving people to bleed to death' thing, right?" Cameron gave him a venomous glare and folded her arms.

Foreman sighed in exasperation, eyeing Cameron with the trademark look of contempt House had noticed he reserved for almost anyone who disagreed with him, and for a second they all stood in a silent stalemate. Cameron, with the air of one laying down a winning hand, finally asked; "Have you told Wilson?"

House glared. "About the fact it's not Lupus? Somehow I don't think that conducting a differential diagnosis is at the top of his agenda right now --"

"About the fact you're treating Harvey," she said, her voice steely.

"No one is telling Wilson anything about Harvey," snapped House, and the vehemence in his voice made Cameron's infuriating look falter. "You think it will improve his recovery? Think it will help us diagnose the other guy?" There was another brief silence, in which House turned around and glared back at himself in the surface of the whiteboard. "Then shut up, unless you have something useful to say."

"The anaphylaxis must have triggered something," said Foreman, clearly keen to move away from their conversation topic. "It's either that, or something in the hospital has made him get worse."

"It would help if we knew what triggered the anaphylaxis," muttered House. There had been oil, concrete, car fumes and Wilson. None seemed a likely trigger.

"Could be exercise-induced," volunteered Chase, without any apparent trace of irony. A sudden parade of vigorous, violent images unrolled in his vision as if on queue, and House felt his guts twist before he gave a slight nod and jotted it on the board.

"The initial trigger is interesting, but not enough. We need new info." House tapped the pen against the question mark floating before him in ink.

"Retest him," he said finally. "I want new information, I want new everything. Go back through every lab result, recheck, and throw in some new stuff as well. Anything we haven't --"

"You want us to redo _every_ test?" asked Chase disbelievingly. "That's ridiculous!"

"You want us to have something useful to work with, that's what you three are going to spend the next twenty-four hours doing. Something's changed since he was admitted. I want to see what and why."

"You know, accepting Harvey as a patient doesn't give you license to torture the guy," said Foreman. House narrowed his eyes.

"Are you saying these tests have no diagnostic value?"

"_No_, I'm just saying --"

"Then go and test him. And quickly, before all the fun answers are left for the autopsy," he snapped, noting Cameron's uncomfortable look with a feeling of satisfaction that quickly turned sour. Just as he'd known, she hung back as the other two resignedly filed out and headed towards wherever Harvey's room was located. House had successfully avoided every implication that he should make a visit there himself because -- because it was _normal_ that he didn't see the patient. He never saw the patient, he didn't need any special reason not to see the patient; the patient was this whiteboard, the patient was _symptoms_. Let it get personal, and you got distracted from the medicine.

_Based on that theory, Harvey would be lucky to last another day_, he realised angrily. Bad enough taking this case, without then doing a half-assed job because --

With an internal shudder and sigh, House turned back to his remaining fellow. Cameron's white, pinched face reminded him of her anxious hovering when Wilson had been admitted; she felt a sense of entitlement, he guessed, because she'd been there then and she was here now, to tell him something about himself or about Wilson that she presumed he hadn't been over twenty times already.

"This is it then," she said, with obvious resentment. "You've decided this is the 'right' thing to do? The fact that other people are . . . _Involved_ - that doesn't make any difference to you."

House was surprised that, even from her lofty position of total disdain, she thought he had settled on a 'right' thing. It would almost be flattering under any other circumstances, or at least interesting. Right now, House wasn't sure that it was either; he was increasingly unsure about an increasing number of things, starting with why he was participating in this conversation, and it was making him want to smash in the whiteboard with his cane.

"My motives have nothing to do with medicine, and nothing to do with how you do your job," he said forcefully. "Why don't you start focussing all that energy on curing the guy instead of trying to set me on fire by glaring?"

"Taking this case isn't going to undo the fact you spent all night in the observation room," she blurted out, suddenly passionately earnest. House looked at her blankly. " . . . You don't have to prove you don't care."

_Oh, God._ House briefly wondered how fucked-up Cameron's version of him was. Cameron and Cuddy and this cyclical conversation and their little supposed nuggets of insight. It almost made him crave Wilson's psychoanalysis.

"How can I prove that I _don't care_ about this conversation?" he asked curtly. "Oh wait, I know ---" He stepped into his office and grabbed the door. "Go do your job," he snapped, and shut it against her pursed mouth, and then tugged the blinds closed for good measure.

Now apparently, his every impulse was to be laid open for dissection, while the_ patient's_ illness was remaining impenetrable. He hooked his red ball with his cane and threw it hard against the wall. Suddenly, who's hand it was behind the curtain, and motive, was all that mattered; when it made no difference to whether the patient got cured, whether the medicine worked, whether the injury healed or not.

_Because motive was what was interesting_. House had always known that; that's why Wilson's version of what had happened to him had got stuck in his head like a scratch on vinyl, replaying over and over next to the jarringly different words of the cop. It would make no difference to his shoulder healing, to his fingers working, to the fact that he was still alive, and House_ still_ wanted to know.

He caught the ball once more and stared at it sitting precariously in the crook of his cane, and wondered for the thirtieth time that morning exactly what he was doing. Because even when they were shadowy beneath the actions that rippled out from them - all that was seen of them, like rings on water -- when it came to people, motives mattered.

* * *

Wilson gripped the windowsill until his knuckles turned white, because he definitely wasn't calling the nurse. _Up and about_, he thought savagely. _Down and out._

He could shuffle around fine now; he'd clicked his PCA pump and taken the opportunity to go for a brief, painful afternoon stroll around his room while no-one else was there, speed up the recovery process, and after a few steps the world was reeling around him like he'd spent the past week drinking whisky instead of sipping water through a straw.

It had to be the meds, or maybe the fact his one arm threw him off balance; his side hurt, and he felt a little shaky, but the pain wasn't that bad: it was the fact the damn room kept spinning. He hated being dizzy. The feeling now automatically dragged him back to lying on the ground, with legs moving past him and blood spilling out of him. He remembered vividly with each lurch of the hospital furniture; it had been as if his sideways-car had been rising up to the ceiling, and he'd had the horrible sensation that if he didn't grip the concrete with both hands, he'd fall, and go sliding down an endless, vertical floor.

This was fine though; this was_ normal._ Wilson knew: you sat up in bed and you felt like a king; then you got to the next stage of progress and it felt like you'd taken two steps back - you crashed into feeling like crap almost immediately. He leaned against the window frame, gripped the IV pole, and took a deep breath.

"You do know the blinds are drawn, right? Is that like zen or something?"

Wilson scowled at the window-slats and turned round as quickly as was possible without toppling to the floor.

"I was - " _resting_ sounded too pathetic, " - thinking."

And now House was scrutinising him like he was one of his patients: perfect. He took a cautious step forward and decided to move House's mind away from his own catalogue of infirmities.

"You got a patient?" House looked at him sharply.

"What?"

"_Patient_," repeated Wilson, with exaggerated slowness. "You haven't come in to take control of my tv in two days."

House had spent most of his first few days awake regaling him with hospital gossip and atrocious daytime tv, and had then vanished abruptly from his calendar of visitors. Wilson had tried not to care; he had, to be fair, spent most of the time unconscious, and he was fairly used to the whims and flurries with which House bestowed or removed his attention. He'd felt irritated to realise he had been slightly disappointed, though; hospital was an exceptionally boring place to be when you weren't at work.

" . . . Yeah. New case." Wilson nodded and managed to cross the distance to the bed without too much hesitation. He stared hard at his own fist wrapped around the IV pole, willing everything around it to fall into stationary compliance. From some hither-before untapped notion of fair play, House didn't actually say anything else until Wilson looked up questioningly, ready to concentrate on something other than the nauseous whirl surrounding him.

"I got an interesting page earlier," began House, and Wilson immediately made the familiar transition from curiosity to vexation. He'd known this was coming. He lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of the bed.

"A little bird told me that you were planning on discharging yourself from the hospital. _Tomorrow,_" he said scathingly. "I'm hoping it was a really stupid bird."

Wilson raised his eyebrows and met House's accusing stare straight on. _Of course_ Cuddy had gone to House, to employ him as a battering ram against his resolve. House gave a disbelieving chuckle at his assent. "Aren't you meant to be a _doctor_?"

"Actually, yes. I have my own medical degree and everything," said Wilson, with forced amiability. "Which is why you can't browbeat me into doing anything different." He raised his good hand, trying to ignore the fact it made everything tilt on its axis again, and cut off House's oncoming protest. "I can lie in bed while my stitches heal just fine at home. I don't need round-the-clock care anymore. It's pointless my being here any longer."

"Apart from the fact it's several days too soon by anyone's _sane_ estimation," said House, looking belligerent. "You won't have your little pain pump at home, you know. You looking forward to lying around in agony?"

"I won't be in _agony_," said Wilson - he'd been braced for House's ridiculous exaggerations. "I'll be on a different set of meds." He gripped the IV pole again, and fought the urge to put his head between his knees - his side would probably rip open. "Hopefully they won't make me feel like I've just gotten off a rollercoaster."

"Oh, so _that's_ why you can hardly stand up. Constant dizziness. I wondered." House rolled his eyes. "Now I'm convinced."

"The meds make me dizzy, not incapable," said Wilson archly. "I can take care of myself."

He could tell House was looking at him and biting his tongue in not replying to that statement, but he didn't care. He slid carefully back into bed and let the world realign itself.

House was still looking at him disapprovingly. It was such a reversal of their usual roles that Wilson felt rather thrown. "Where is this sudden concern coming from anyway?" he demanded. "What do you care if I get seasick on the way to the bathroom?"

"What about the fact that you can't even take off that thing one-handed -" he pointed, with the same disgust that Wilson felt, towards the shoulder immobiliser (already he loathed the thing with a passion), - "let alone check yourself over? You thought about the fact you're going to be stuck alone in a hotel room if something goes wrong? You can't just go hop on a bus!"

"I'm booking the taxi and home healthcare this evening," said Wilson, as if House hadn't spoken. "One daily visit to help change the dressing is probably enough. I can afford it." Wilson felt a rush of exasperation at House's continued glower, and his own defensive behaviour. This wasn't something he needed to negotiate.

House looked unreasonably annoyed, even for him. "What's wrong with being here? The nurses love fawning over you. You get plenty of help."

"I don't need _help_! I don't need looking after, I just need to be somewhere with a bed, that isn't surrounded with --" Wilson cut himself off, because he wasn't exactly sure what he had been going to say. _Cops_, perhaps. _Irritating nurses. Would-be murderers_. "What does it matter to you were I am?"

"Cuddy agrees with _me _that --"

"Cuddy can't stop me, and neither can you. I'm not incapable of rational thought," said Wilson irritably. "I've thought it through for the last two days. I've decided."

"House --" Cameron appeared in the doorway, looking unusually sullen. "Need to talk to you. About our _patient_." House wheeled around and glared at her, and Wilson looked on with mild interest. Cameron and House at loggerheads was unfailingly entertaining.

"I'll see you later," said House, scanning Wilson briefly with his usual intense stare, before marching off to his office. Wilson fought a groan; apparently for House, the conversation wasn't over. He didn't need anyone else supervising him at the moment; his life had not been his own for over a week, and now he had promised himself the luxury of some privacy and dignity in peace - even if his hotel didn't exactly classify as a home.

"Look at you," said Cameron - she was still by the door - and for a moment, Wilson thought there was pity, or horror, in her voice, and he felt his insides burn and shrink at the same time. But he looked up and saw with relief that she was smiling at him delightedly. She'd been to visit him twice since he'd come off the vent.

"You look so much better," she said. Wilson felt genuine pleasure at her impulse to comfort him; it clashed with a rather acute sting of embarrassment. He gave her an uncomfortable little smile.

"Thanks. I feel much better." She nodded, and walked off in House's wake, and Wilson laid back against the pillows with only the tiniest wave of dizziness.

_That_ was precisely why he needed to get the hell out of here. Everyone clustering around him to help, everyone watching and caring to an insufferable degree - it made him feel weaker. It reminded him that he wasn't the doctor anymore, he was the patient; of the other patient upstairs, and why Wilson had ended up in here - he felt like he was, in fact, miserably close to unravelling. He was constantly, stressfully aware of turning away from a large portion of his thoughts, and with every turn the dam seemed to be more in danger of breaking open and flooding him.

Obviously, Wilson told himself, it was only a feeling, not an actual threat; it was probably some sort of reaction to the fact he'd been stuck in a hospital bed for the majority of the last week. There would be no shame in feeling . . . _worried_, he knew that; he_ knew_ it was normal after something like this; he knew that certain things would probably, eventually, have to be thought about; but it certainly wasn't a process which required an audience. It would be something to think about when he was master of his own space again, and in control of other people's comings and goings.

Wilson had enough self-control, enough self-awareness, to know all this; he certainly wasn't the emotionally crippled one when it came to trauma or self-analysis. Which was why he couldn't understand why, when he was getting stronger all the time, he still - _still_, felt oddly adrift.

* * *

As predicted, Cuddy sidled in through House's office door after his conversation with Wilson, as the sun was sliding down sluggishly in the sky. He glanced up from his desk and nodded. "Hey."

"Have you spoken to Wilson?"

"Yeah. He's still just as dumb as when you spoke to him." Cuddy sighed and sat down in the Eames, propping her chin on her hands.

"Damn." She looked genuinely puzzled, House noted - people always credited Wilson with having far more common sense than he actually had. _Must have something to do with the ties_, he mused. "It's too soon. I don't understand why he's being so stubborn about this. He's always so meticulous about patient recovery." House shrugged.

"He's not the doctor, he's the patient. You know what they say."

"You couldn't change his mind?" She leaned forwards and looked at him suspiciously; "I know you've been avoiding him since you took the case, but feeling guilty about --"

"I didn't change his mind because he's a grown man!" interrupted House loudly, glaring at Cuddy. Since he'd started treating Harvey, things had returned to a grudging and strained shade of normal between them - she wasn't responsible for his choices, after all - but he wasn't above reminding her who's idea this was if she started getting Freudian on his ass. "He can make his own stupid decisions. Wonder-boy's as qualified as you are in judging his recovery."

"But you agree with me, that it's too soon?" pressed Cuddy. House shrugged.

"If he was still married, it wouldn't be a problem; you'd discharge him without blinking. He's not a stray cat; we can't just keep him here because he doesn't have a carer waiting at home."

"At his hotel room," said Cuddy worriedly. "He shouldn't be alone after all this, not for - what, twenty-two hours a day, according to his plan?" She shook her head and bit her lip, and House watched her fret. Personally, he wasn't surprised.

It was typical Wilson to want to vanish to a hotel room for a month while he was convalescing, and not emerge until he could act like nothing had ever happened, unruffled and calm and taking charge of everyone else as usual. And it was typical that Wilson wouldn't listen to any of House's highly-sensible reasons as to why it was a _stupid_ idea, as House knew too well from his own periods of gruelling recovery. Of course, when _House_ had been sick, it had been _different_; Wilson had decided he'd needed company, needed to adjust, he'd needed to get out and see people, but when it was_ Wilson_ -- House glared down at his papers in annoyance. Obviously you could never suggest to _Wilson_ that he might have a problem, oh no, - when Wilson turned himself into a shell-shocked hermit, he was simply being _practical_.

Wilson, he reflected, was sometimes staggeringly blind for a person who spent so much time analysing everyone else's behaviour.

"Maybe . . . maybe this isn't such a bad idea," said Cuddy slowly, with a note of surrender in her voice. "You're right, we can't stop him. Maybe he's thinking the right way, being positive -- "

"He's thinking like a moron," said House dismissively. "He just wants to get the hell out of here, and I don't blame him."

"You haven't -- you didn't tell him about Harvey?" asked Cuddy suddenly. House shook his head. "And you're not going to?"

" . . Yes. I am," said House, after a pause. "Not yet. Later." _When he can handle it_, House had decided; _when they'd already had something that classified as an actual conversation._ Wilson might be intent on surrounding himself with polite strangers so that he could never let himself say anything of value, but House knew he was better off around someone he could get mad at, yell at, instead of continuing with the maddening calmness that he'd displayed since his admission. Unfortunately, House thought guiltily, that person, that traitorous bastard, had been avoiding Wilson like the plague for the past two days and concentrating on the man who'd put him in here. No wonder Wilson had spent the time plotting his little escape plan.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" said Cuddy, in a voice that strongly suggested that _she_ didn't.

"Unless you want him to find out from Cameron," House said. Cuddy frowned; obviously she too had endured Cameron's opinions on the subject. "He's going to find out eventually. He's not fragile." He looked at her defiantly as she raised her eyebrows.

"This isn't about you unburdening yourself," said Cuddy warningly, "not if it's going to . . . Well, if he's not going to take it that well. Right now, Wilson needs a break."

"I know." House desk-drummed pensively for a minute and sighed. "Unfortunately, you can't stop people from making crappy choices." Cuddy looked momentarily uncomfortable before she seemed to realise House was talking about Wilson. He stood up.

"What are you going to do?"

House tapped his cane twice against the floor, and realised with a pang of annoyance that the plan that had been sidling into his brain could actually work, and probably should.

"Give him a better choice," he said lightly. Then he frowned."I just need a _little_ more time."

* * *

House didn't see Wilson until after lunch the next day; he was sitting up in bed, looking mutinous. He started talking before House had even closed the door.

"So, someone marked a change of meds on my chart," said Wilson. His tone was conversational, but he was eyeing House dangerously. "Which . . . is funny, because it _looks _like your writing, and I'm pretty sure you aren't my attending." His eyes tracked House's progress as he paced around the room. "The nurses are being suspiciously quiet about it too, actually. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that, though, would you?"

House opened his mouth to reply, and got no further: Wilson pounced.

"You _drugged_ me!" Wilson looked furious. "_That_ was your master plan?! I miss my cab and spend the next five days sitting in here instead of just booking another one? What's next, _restraints_? Or is it easier if you just keep me unconscious for the next week?"

"Maybe it's been a week," suggested House unrepentantly. Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose with his wrong hand; all of his gestures looked oddly unbalanced now.

"Oh, _calm down_. I just thought you could do with a rest before the journey. And - I needed to sort some things out." Wilson looked up at him suspiciously.

"Nothing needs to be sorted out," he said insistently. "I've already sorted everything."

"Well yeah, if you're going with your stupid _hotel room_ plan," said House, rolling his eyes. He sat down in the visitor's chair, and tried to ignore Wilson's melodramatic exasperation.

"House, it is not ---There's no, -- What exactly is your problem with my not being here? I'm not going to drop dead in the lobby!" Wilson looked at him curiously. "Did you think I was going to check myself out and then collapse? I'm not afraid to ask for a little help if I need it," he said, rather pointedly.

"Not from total strangers, no!" snapped House. "You're being an idiot. You think it's nothing to suddenly be one limb down, you think youn can just cope better than anyone else?" Wilson opened his mouth in surprise, but House carried on, letting his irritation carry him forward. "You just have to make it look easy, is that it?"

Wilson's eyebrows had shot up to his forehead; he clearly hadn't been expecting this. "No, I . . . That's not what I meant. House, it's - this obviously isn't the same thing." He looked supremely awkward all of a sudden, and House had to stifle a sudden urge to grin.

"Maybe not in a few weeks, when it's healed," he acknowledged magnanimously. "But right now . . ."

And now House felt uncomfortable at the way Wilson was looking at him, so he tried to sound as professional as possible, scanning the hospital apparatus instead of Wilson's face. "You need to see how well you can operate before you can decide about moving back to the hotel. You could move in with me. Just for a couple of days, maybe."

" . . Seriously?" Wilson was trying for eye contact; he looked skeptical, disbelieving, as if House was laying some sort of elaborate Oncologist trap. House found it rather reassuring, and tried to hide his amusement.

"Why? So that I can wake up with my other arm strapped behind my back and my shoelaces tied together?" This time House couldn't quite mask a smirk; _Wilson should have thought ahead before filing through his cane_.

"Well, obviously, that too," he said. "But it's the smart thing to do. I'm around in the mornings and evenings, instead of some government-trained harpy; but I'll be here all day, so you can laze around popping painkillers uninterrupted," - Wilson rolled his eyes, - " and I won't actually _charge_ you for the honour of my assistance - not that I'll be fawning over you like your nurses' fan club out there." He risked a glance upwards at Wilson's confused expression; was that hopeful, or horrified?

"It makes more sense than you dragging me over to your place every hour of the day because you need someone to unscrew the lid off the peanut butter," he pointed out, somehow managing to sound pre-emptively irritated by Wilson's behaviour.

Wilson still had the slightly dazed, scrunched look he wore when he was several steps behind in the conversation. House got to his feet rather quickly.

As an option, it sucked. It would probably suck for Wilson, it definitely sucked for House, - no way could he make Wilson take the couch this time. And Wilson wasn't being cornered, ordered, or conspired against; House wasn't bullying him, manipulating him, or even appeasing him to make himself feel better -- in fact, the entire thing was drastically different from House's normal modus operandi, and he felt rather disconcerted. But annoying and inconvenient as it was -- it was pretty much the only useful thing House was able to offer.

One of the better things to be given, he had figured, was a choice.

"It's just an offer," he said. He found himself scratching his eyebrow, before bringing his hand down quickly onto his cane; Wilson was probably still looking at him. "On the table. If you want it." He straightened himself out self-consciously and tried to sound airy as he headed back towards the door. "Think about it. I have to go. I have fellows to outwit."

House was already out the door when Wilson managed a slightly stunned, "Uh, . . Thanks." He was already halfway down the corridor when Wilson sat back in bed, and stared at the doorway where House had vanished in bewilderment.

_Just an offer._ For the first time in two days, without really knowing why, or what he would say, Wilson suddenly found himself smiling.


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story! It is greatly appreciated :) This is quite a quiet chapter, I don't know if people will find it a little odd. I just wrote it this evening because I thought the story could use a section like this as a bridge, a little rest before the upcoming drama. As ever, let me know what you think.**

* * *

Wilson didn't notice House's silent materialisation in the doorway of his hospital room. He was sat on the edge of the bed, finally dressed in his own clothes, and concentrating with comical intensity upon unbuttoning the jacket that was folded over his knees. With only one hand, he hadn't gotten very far.

"You make a lousy cripple," House observed.

Wilson glanced up at him, and completely failed to look offended; he was still obviously far too buoyed by the promise of freedom.

"In which case, I'll bow to your expertise," he said dryly. He flung the jacket at House with his good arm, who snatched it out of the air and threw his cane back in return. Wilson twiddled the shaft inexpertly between his fingers while House undid the jacket. Buttons _and_ a zipper. He rolled his eyes.

"And for my first tip - don't button up jackets _on the hanger!_" House said in disgust. "Seriously, how anal are you? How many hours of your life have you wasted buttoning up jackets to just hang in your closet?!"

"Ironing isn't _actually_ one of the deadly sins," Wilson pointed out, with longsuffering patience. He cast a carefully impassive look at House's current attire (which was, admittedly, somewhat rumpled - the case wasn't going well). "Some people don't want to look as if they slept in their shirt -- or under a bridge," he added. House shot him an irate glance and tossed the jacket back at Wilson's grinning face.

"I wasn't aware that pushing your ass down the hallway classed as a black tie event." Judging from Wilson's unflappable good cheer, being released from the hospital probably _did_ rank up there with cocktail parties and free booze.

He jiggled the wheelchair impatiently on its back wheels and waited while Wilson painstakingly arranged the jacket over his shoulders, and impressively refrained from mocking him. _Better to wait until Wilson was committed and installed in his apartment,_ House decided. He didn't want to give him a new excuse to make another moronic call about his living arrangements. A smirk uncurled from the corners of his mouth.

He wasn't a _saint_, though, for Christ's sake -- "Come _on_! I could have lapped the hospital twice by now," he declared, bumping the wheelchair against the bed. Wilson gave him an exasperated look, but finally moved from the bed. House noticed the slightly stiff way he held his torso, and the fading bruise on his jaw that he hadn't paid attention to before, against the vent and the IV and the sling. Wilson slid into the seat with satisfaction.

"Ok." Wilson grabbed the bag of his stuff and the cane once again, and relaxed, waiting for House to steer.

Just for a second, as House gripped the handles, he felt Wilson's good mood warm him as well. He grinned behind Wilson's head.

"Alright then." He pushed forwards. "Home, James."

* * *

Despite House's best efforts, he had been unable to convince Wilson to use his cane in a jousting match against the Wheelchair Doc who'd tried to steal his parking space; nor had he convinced him that House had organised for him to get home by riding side-saddle on his motorbike. Wilson hadn't even expressed any curiosity over how his car had materialised in the parking lot; he had simply climbed in, waited while House returned the wheelchair to the lobby, and was now basking like a cat in the rosy haze of the sunset as House drove. Even when a traffic queue unrolled in front of them and House played Frank Zappa too loudly on the car stereo, he didn't complain - maybe he was asleep. House glanced sideways. Wilson was pinned against his seat by a fat golden stripe of sun, and he looked blurry through the thousands of dust motes drifting across the light-ray dividing them. House squinted painfully through the glow and hit his horn, for no real reason other than it was uncomfortably hot and sweat was prickling his collar.

"It's like we've driven into the heart of the sun," he grumbled, inching forwards in the traffic.

"Damn. Must have taken a wrong turn," murmured Wilson. So he wasn't asleep: just irritatingly content. And House would be sleeping on the couch tonight. He glared and hit the horn again, but Wilson didn't even frown.

He barked out news of their arrival when they finally pulled up outside his apartment, and Wilson twitched back into alertness. House had grabbed Wilson's bag and was halfway to the door before he remembered the fact that his friend still reeled with vertigo on every third step, and he swivelled round. Wilson was leaning against the closed car door with his eyes shut.

" . . . Coming?"

"Mmm." Wilson exhaled and opened his eyes, as if he was waking up. "Give me a minute." House turned around again and stumped laboriously towards the door. He'd drop the bag and go back in a minute; extra walking at this point in the day was never a good thing, but if Wilson wanted to barf in private he should probably allow him that.

He still hadn't moved when House emerged two minutes later, but he didn't look sick. Somehow divining his presence, Wilson squinted one eye open again and gave him a small smile. "Haven't been outside for a while. Just thought I'd enjoy some fresh air."

"Sure. And sunlight, the laughter of small children," nodded House, limping up to him. "You going to burst into song now?"

"I might if you don't shut up," countered Wilson mildly. He tilted his head skywards again, and House valiantly managed not to roll his eyes. It was pretty cold outside the car, he realised suddenly. The flu was an extra problem that Wilson could probably do without right now, besides his own company and a mangled shoulder. House nudged him gently on his uninjured arm and tilted his head towards the open door. "Come on. You can watch the Discovery Channel inside." He was surprised to find that his voice sounded much softer than it had inside his head, and his forehead furrowed in annoyance.

Wilson nodded and stepped unsteadily away from the car, House following just behind him. He remembered how Wilson had walked beside him after the infarction, hovering around the periphery of his space in a way that had made House want to club him with his crutch. The remembrance did nothing to alter his current position.

"So, . . . do I actually get control of the remote?" asked Wilson, with what House considered foolish optimism.

"No. That was obviously a lie," he said breezily. "First person to the couch gets control of the remote." On cue he nimbly overtook Wilson, and rested against the door while he caught up, propping it open for his entrance. "How much do you want to bet that today, I can outrun you?"

* * *

To Wilson's complete lack of surprise, they ended up watching some Australian soap opera that House had been idly following for a shameful number of weeks. The cast was made up entirely of wide-eyed teen models, flinging themselves around a beach and at each other, while House made gleefully disparaging remarks about Chase's homeland and, inevitably, Chase himself. Wilson found himself smiling along with House's commentary as a blonde surfer tossed his hair dramatically on the edge of the sand, and within an hour, feet carefully propped up on the coffee table and back resting against a small stack of cushions, he was saying "Oh_ ho!_" knowingly as Cassie kissed Jason, but looked longingly at Seth.

His mental powers must have weakened in the hospital.

But it was so _good_ to do this - to enjoy something mindless and casual in the company of someone else; to be relaxed and free from the scrutiny of the staff and the police and himself. House's house wasn't the same cold, stretching space as a hospital room or a parking lot; all the shadows were warm and worn and shaped around a human presence. It smelt of leather and coffee - it was un-clinical, private, - _wonderful_.

However, in an unfair twist, the laughter was making his side hurt with a steady throb that made him nauseous. He glanced around for his bag, dumped carelessly on the other side of the table beyond his reach, and quashed the immediate groan that threatened to rise out of him. Pain was a small price to pay for the change of scenery, . . . and House had already made enough withering comments against his declarations of independence.

"Meds?" asked House lazily. He was hopping channels before the credits had time to finish rolling.

"Yeah." Wilson glanced at him in surprise. _Maybe five years of feeling constant pain had given House some sort of radar_, he mused absently, as House leaned forward and hooked the handle of the holdall with his cane. _Like a really depressing superpower. _

House tossed him bag and then swiped his own pills from his pocket. He held up the little yellow bottle in a toast and quirked an eyebrow at Wilson. "Santé!"

_Or -- maybe House is incapable of forgetting about drugs for more than an hour at a time,_ Wilson amended. He'd noticed that House had started synchronising his Vicodin doses with Wilson's own meds, clearly operating under the assumption that it was harder for Wilson to comment on his drug use when he was popping pills himself. Wilson fought down a burst of exasperation; it was irrelevant and illogical, but as happened so often with House's little schemes, it was also weirdly _true, _and House knew it

_. . . Damn. _He dropped the bottles onto his lap and pursed his lips in vexation. _Perfect._

House blinked at him curiously. "Saint Jimmy saying 'no' to drugs?"

"No," said Wilson, suppressing an urge to sigh. He surrendered himself to the situation. "Childproof caps."

House stared for a second, and then snorted with mirth, while Wilson nodded resignedly and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, hilarious. I always forget; it's your bedside manner that marks you out from the common herd," he said, his voice laden with irony. House, grinning wolfishly, finally reached over and popped the caps with ostentatious ease, unashamedly tickled by Wilson's irked expression and the hospital's prescription policies. "Got any water?"

House stopped smirking, and muttered something that sounded distinctly like '_amateur'_ before heading into the kitchen.

"Last time I checked," he shouted from somewhere near the fridge, "you can still _walk_." Wilson sank slightly deeper into the cushions.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to deprive you of an excuse to exercise your caring side," he said charitably. A glass was suddenly thrust under his nose; Wilson had to stop himself from inspecting if it had been washed. While he was too dizzy to stand long at the sink, what he didn't know couldn't hurt him.

"Smugness doesn't become you," House informed him, but his eyes still looked amused when he slouched back onto the couch and swiped the remote.

Within ten minutes everything was slightly misty again; Wilson's side hurt less, and his shoulder too, but he felt the same lethargy and heaviness he would now forever associate with being a patient, and he had a horrible feeling that the vertigo might return when he got to his feet. He didn't even notice the tv turning off until someone was shaking his arm. "What?"

"No passing out in my bed," said House, looking at him appraisingly. Wilson blinked groggily, and then realised; he'd be taking the bedroom.

"Oh," he said, stupidly. "Yeah." He stood up slightly too fast and clutched the top of the couch, trying to remember which direction he was meant to be facing. House had already vanished into the bathroom, and he made his way down the hall, into House's bedroom, suddenly feeling intrusive and out of place.

He had to sit down on the bed before he did anything else; and then he noticed that at some point while he'd been on the couch, House had put his meds (_caps off_) and a glass of water on the dresser, and his clothes (_from his hotel room?_ he realised blearily), were in a suitcase at the foot of the bed. He blinked at the pile of his stuff and tried to snap his brain out of the fog. House must have sent a member of his team to pick his case up, he realised belatedly. He hadn't really thought about any of this. It suddenly dawned on him - he hadn't really thought about _anything_ practical since House had offered him an alternative from isolation; he'd just seized on it and handed over the reigns, and hadn't thought about House and his leg on the couch, or his stuff and his car magically appearing where they were supposed to be . . .

He buried his face in his hands for a minute and breathed deeply. When he sat up again, his brain felt much clearer and he felt a lot more depressed, at this close of what had felt like a casual evening. He'd never felt like a _guest_ when he'd been here before. Obviously, that was always what he'd been, but --

Wilson shook himself and reached down gingerly towards the suitcase. _Sweatpants first. _Changing was slow, and laborious, and made him hiss his breath out with his teeth. _Then a t-shirt._ This was the part he hadn't exactly figured out yet. He stared at the cloth scrunched in his hand; his arm was in his shirt, which was in the sling; so to take off the shirt, he had to take off the sling; and then put on a shirt; and then redo the sling, none of which was possible without having his good arm stir his ribs and stitches into a vicious ache. It had buckles that were practically on the _back_, for God's sake. It was designed by sadists.

Wilson looked around for a mirror, but of course House wouldn't have anything as _obvious _as a mirror in his bedroom. He needed to fathom the logistics; he could sleep in the shirt he was wearing, but then there was tomorrow - eventually he'd have to change. He didn't want to call House for help either, after sprawling around drugged in the man's living room. He bit his lip and stared down at himself. _Crap._ It was obvious now he thought about it, and they were both professionals, (yes, he reminded himself, even _House_,) but -- _but_ he couldn't quite bring himself to step into the hall and yell for his friend to undress him.

"Hey!" Wilson jumped slightly as House rapped sharply on the door, and then let himself in, limping towards the bed. "Pillow," he muttered, swiping one off the bed and returning to the doorway to hurl it in the general direction of the couch. Wilson licked his lips nervously as House turned back and looked at him.

"Er --"

"Good Lord, how long does it take you to get undressed?" asked House incredulously. "It's not that difficult." He stepped forwards and started unbuttoning Wilson's shirt with irritated efficiency. "Not even _one_ button down?"

"Uh, -- " Wilson felt incredibly awkward now, with his good arm hanging uselessly at his side, and House's face only an intimate space of inches from his own, frowning down in concentration. He swallowed.

House paused, and sniffed. "Are you wearing _cologne_?"

" . . . What?"

"You're wearing cologne, on the day you get discharged from hospital?" Wilson briefly forgot to feel embarrassed, and bristled instead.

"And?"

House's hands went to his shoulders, flipping him round and starting on the sling. "And, who the hell were you trying to impress? Did you think it would add to your charm while you drooled on my couch?"

"House, I did _not_ - "

"Was it one of the nurses? Alice, whatever her name is?" guessed House, and Wilson gave a small gasp of pain as his arm was manoeuvred out of the immobiliser.

"It's _Alicia_, and I wasn't trying to _impress_ anybody! Not everyone seizes on physical injury as an excuse to regress to caveman standards of hygiene," he snapped pointedly. He could _feel_ House rolling his eyes behind him, more certainly than he could feel his arm being guided into a sleeve.

"Please, the _one _bonus of winding up in hospital - arm there, - is that you don't have to give a crap about what you look like." House paused. "That, and not having to get up to pee."

"Like you give a damn about -- _ow!_" _God_, that hurt, " - how you look on a normal day?!"

"I have animal magnetism," House informed him, yanking the strap tight around his torso again with a decisive wrench. "I don't _need _fancy ties and three-hundred dollar French shoes." Wilson suddenly realised he hadn't been prodded for several seconds, and turned around. Then he looked down. And frowned.

"House -- this is not a t-shirt." How it had mysteriously appeared on his body in the last few seconds of sniping and discomfort was another mystery entirely. House shrugged.

"I'd like to see you get a t-shirt on without lifting your arm over your head. It's a _thin_ sweater. It has a front. With a zipper." He grinned. "Think you can handle a zipper?"

Wilson put his hand on his hip, and ignored House's mounting amusement. "Funny."

"How's that feel?" House picked up his cane and jabbed it towards the sling; Wilson swatted it away. He tried to wiggle his arm.

"Good, . . . I can't move it."

House nodded in satisfaction. "Good." He still looked utterly unfazed as he turned back towards the door, while Wilson suddenly realised that he had somehow made a successful transition into his pyjamas without any apparent input from his own brain.

"By the way," added House in the doorway, "if you decide you _do_ need anything - just try to suffer quietly. I actually have to go to work in the morning."

"Right," said Wilson, blinking after him. "Um, - "

"'Night." The door swung closed.

" . . . Goodnight," called Wilson. He stood facing the door for several seconds, finally kicking his discarded shirt into the corner and sitting on the side of the bed. _Only House could simultaneously help you and make you want to throttle him. _Today the familiar reflection felt bittersweet in his tired brain.

He lay back slowly, until he was staring up at the shadowy ceiling, and then raised his head and looked at his left hand. There was something weirdly fetal about his loosely-curled fingers as they rested on his chest. He tried to move them. His hand tingled as if static was earthing on his skin, but nothing else happened.

Wilson flopped his head back against the bed. _Time_, he told himself. _It just takes time._

From down the hallway, diluted by the distance, came the step-thump of House moving around. On his back, the dizziness stopped, and the nausea. He didn't reel: he floated. His eyes closed and his chest rose and fell with a steady, heavy rhythm; and in time, he could feel his heart inside him, clenching and unclenching like a fist. And a sense of solidity smoothed over all of him; not the heaviness of lethargy, or the sickening lightness of his meds; he felt held fast, centred firm.

Somewhere, beyond the epicentre of House's bed and his body, there were officers who wanted to talk to him; surgeons who needed to fix him; people and patients and three men in particular, caught up inextricably in his orbit until some future trial. They didn't feel like his problems.

He knew they were; he knew they had to be faced, but right now, for the first time, that didn't bother him either. Not right now, half-wrapped in sleep, tipping on the edge of unconsciousness. Now there was just the physical pull of exhaustion; a feeling of relaxing muscle, sealed-shut eyes, lungs filling and his body pulling him down, deeper and deeper into the bed. It was such a strange feeling: a deliberate weight spreading and creeping through every limb, . . . weight like a ball must feel, he thought drowsily, at the zenith, suspended; in that moment of reprieve before it starts to fall.

_Time. Space. Shelter. _This was refuge. It was temporary, and it was weird, but right now it was perfect. This was all he wanted.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! Let me know what you think of this update:**

* * *

Despite his cocktail of meds, Wilson was still up before House the next morning, feeling more well-disposed towards the world than he had for days. He spent a few minutes enjoying the minutiae of his morning ritual (wash, gargle, spit, and not a nurse in sight,) before examining his body in the bathroom mirror. It had only occurred to him that morning that he hadn't seen his reflection in quite a while. He eyed himself sternly; leant towards the glass; narrowed and widened his eyes; opened his mouth; flitting through expressions like a child. _Just the same. _He picked up his razor and started to buzz it over his jaw.

He wondered what his scars would look like beneath the bandages. On his side, a straight incision; that would be a silk-pink line, the healing skin taut and shiny. Wrong-handed, he steered the razor cautiously around his jugular _(he'd had quite enough blood-loss for the time being_) and mentally flicked through a parade of his patients' surgical scars, trying to find the best fit for himself.

His shoulder would be getting a new surgical incision soon; he wondered idly if the original stab wound would still be there, a little sinkhole in the skin. It would be a puckered, black-line -- the image of his grandma's pursed lips suddenly sprang into his mind, looming forwards to kiss him as a boy. He recoiled, nearly slicing his own throat and catching a glimpse of his horrified expression in the mirror. _That was _. . . _just wrong. _He shuddered, and carefully resumed shaving, trying to purge his mind of such comparisons.

Wilson hoped that whatever their shape, the scars looked _neat,_ professional. Soon they would become part of him, he knew; the same as a freckle or the dimple on his knee he'd gotten from falling out of the tree house when he was seven. But it was so much easier to suspend revulsion when it was his _patients'_ scars; so easy to become aloof, to stop seeing wounds, and just medical patterns. He clicked off the razor and stared at himself: _was that vanity?_ Surely his own body deserved a portion of pity too; why should he stare at himself every morning and see a mark of violence, and every morning think _ugly_, or _knife?_

He slipped off towards the kitchen. House was still sprawled over the couch, fingers brushing the floor, snoring gently - his own scar concealed, as it always was. Wilson imagined a faceless woman lying next to him in bed; she'd see, and ask as well, _what happened there?_ He'd probably have that conversation with _every_ woman he'd ever be with, for the rest of his life. He jammed the bread into the toaster.

He could always lie. _Appendectomy _- that covered his side. Shoulder: _fell on a fence-post_. Fingers - _the dog ate my brachial plexus. _

"House." He walked over to the couch and put the plate of toast on the coffee table. "_House._ It's past nine. Get up."

"Guhfknik," responded House eloquently. He buried his face further into the pillow. An arm unfurled from the sheet and reached out for the pill bottle, gulping back two Vicodin before he had even cracked an eye open. Wilson thought guiltily of his night in the double bed, and refrained from commenting.

"Why -- are you even conscious?" rasped House, looking at him in disbelief.

"It's past nine," Wilson repeated, munching his piece of toast. "Seriously, I thought you had a case?"

"Make some breakfast and shut -- " House managed to focus on the plate, and glared. "Fine. Just shut up then." Despite the fact that Wilson had deliberately laid the toast out in front of him, House swiped a piece with practised stealth, and made absolutely no effort to rise from the couch. Wilson knew that House wouldn't even attempt to get up while he still had an audience, so he rolled his eyes obediently and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"And toast?" shouted House. "_I _can make toast. You've got to start earning your keep." His threat was followed by a muffled string of muttering, and then a curse, and finally Wilson heard House limp heavily towards the bathroom.

When he came back, dressed and marginally less bleary-eyed, he sprawled back over the couch and started leisurely eating his way through Wilson's newest batch. "Cuddy's going to be pissed," Wilson pointed out.

"Good. It'll give her something to do," retorted House through a mouthful of toast. "Seeing as she doesn't do any actual _doctor_ work." He noticed Wilson's grimace, and dusted the crumbs off his knees irritably. "This is _my _couch, what's your problem?" He pointed a crust at Wilson accusingly. "Righty not satisfying your needs?"

He seemed to cheer up when Wilson spluttered in disgust. "Anyway, what's your plan for the day while you sit and lecture me? Eating and sleeping? Hardly pushing for the burn, are you?"

"Well, the one-handed wrestling master-class was fully booked," said Wilson dryly. "Do you have anything TIVO'd that isn't Spongebob?"

"The O.C."

"Then I guess I'll be watching daytime tv," said Wilson glumly.

"Come on, you can't possibly be upset about _missing_ work?"

"I actually find my career _more_ fulfilling than watching _General Hospital._ I don't suppose you'll need a consult today?" he suggested lightly. "You could dial in for my medical opinion on your new case."

House didn't smile, though: he looked away and threw his crust onto the plate. "Thanks, but I'm sure I can find someone else in the hospital to say '_It's not cancer',_" he said sardonically. He got to his feet and gave Wilson a distinctly threatening glare. "Stay away from the hospital and get some rest," he warned, pointing at the immobiliser. "Or I'll buckle you to a lamp-post and leave you there."

"I take it back. You have a charming bedside manner." House glowered at him and grabbed his bike helmet from the corner, unhooking his cane from above the door.

"And don't erase my TIVO," he added mulishly. Wilson smirked and settled back against the couch cushions.

"Goodbye, House."

"'Bye, Wilson."

* * *

House was in an infinitely better mood on his way back from work, feeling the motorbike purr underneath him and devour the tarmac below. If he was right about his autoimmune theory, and the treatment worked instead of tanking some new organ system, then the case would be solved, Harvey could rot in jail, and he'd stop feeling like crap whenever Wilson made some innocent enquiry about the hospital.

The sideways snatches of city he saw through the helmet were all tinted dark by glass, shot through with sun-streaks, and blurred by his speed. _If he was right _--- He revved the engine, and tore around the corner. How could he be _wrong_, going this fast? He grinned into the wind.

It wouldn't change his choice, he knew that. But at least he wouldn't find himself musing over new theories while Wilson was passed out next to him on the couch.

Of course, Harvey would be fixed, while Wilson might never get to wield his left-handed can-opener again. That thought wasn't really contributing to his buzz of happiness. But then he reflected, as he unclipped the cane from the bike, that it wasn't exactly _his _fault that Wilson was finding out that life wasn't fair. House had known that fact for long enough.

The pain of dismounting was drowned out immediately by a jab of annoyance as he saw two cops walking out of his front door. He pulled off the helmet and eyed them warily.

"What do you want now?" It was the meek-looking woman again; the other guy was already getting into the car without glancing at House.

"Doctor House," she said politely. "Nice to see you again." She even tried to sound sincere, which House found vaguely amusing. "Doctor Wilson was just signing off on his statement from the other week. He's been clarifying some of the details for us."

_They want to take it to court as a hate crime_; she'd already told him she was pushing for as much. He wondered what information Wilson could possibly have withheld the first time round that could help to incarcerate that scumbag.

"Sounds like fun," he murmured. She ducked into the car and gave him a small smile. House felt a slight sense of foreboding as he stepped into his home; Wilson had hardly been buoyant after his last visit from the cops.

At least he wasn't weeping or scowling; he was sat up in the living room with the tv on mute, rubbing the back of his neck absently.

"I see the cops crashed your party," said House. Wilson nodded, and House thought he'd have to push a bit harder, but then Wilson picked up the remote and started turning it over in his hands.

"Yeah, they were just going over my statement." He stared at his hands, and gave a strained smile. "They wanted me to go over some of the choicer quotes." House sat down on the couch and put his feet up, fixing his eyes on the tv, and silently started counting to ten.

_Seven, eight, -- and _"They want me to provide a motive," said Wilson suddenly, and he glanced at House. He was aiming for dismissive and annoyed, but wasn't quite carrying it off. "Like I have some insight to offer."

House gave a non-committal nod, mind racing, and watched the silent anchorman gesturing on the screen. "For a mugging, I'd guess the motive was _cash_," he said carefully. This time, he only had to count to five.

". . .Yeah," said Wilson unconvincingly, and he dropped the remote in House's lap. "You pick, I'm done."

_Wrong answer._ "Except it obviously _wasn't_," snapped House, fighting a wave of disappointment. He'd been sure for a second that Wilson was going to actually _tell_ him.

Wilson jumped at House's outburst, and stared at him. "What?"

"Money obviously wasn't the motive, or it wouldn't still be an issue," said House. "Fair enough if you haven't exactly been chatty with me on the subject, but if you're not even speaking to the cops --"

"Did you miss the part where we just had another interview?!" asked Wilson incredulously. "I've spoken to the police! Just because _you_ never need to talk about anything -- "

"Oh, what is _wrong_ with you?" House sounded furious, and Wilson looked shocked and defensive almost immediately, but he was too frustrated to care. "You nearly died, you don't say a word about it and now you're analysing _me_?"

And now Wilson was doing that indignant gaping-thing he always did when House caught him off-guard; he took opportunity of the moment's silence to switch the channel, and glared at the Baywatch credits. But Wilson didn't do his expected segue into stuttering; he just sat back and folded his arm over the sling.

"I got mugged," he said tartly. "Someone tried to _kill _you. Do you want me to start examining why we never talked about that? I don't remember you confiding in me about motives." House felt a little thrown by the parry. _Sure, blame _me.

"As I said at the time, I assumed his reasoning was faulty," he said, not entirely comfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.

"What? When - You never said that!" said Wilson, glaring at him. "Some tried to _kill _you, House, and . . . apparently it didn't even faze you!" House, caught in the full rush of Wilson's stare, suddenly realised that this speech had been brewing on Wilson's side for several days. "Did the reason not matter?"

Wilson was looking at him demandingly, but more than that -- there was something unspoken in the question, some appeal, something _hopeful. _

"No," he said.

And with nauseating predictability, there it was; the brief flash of hurt in Wilson's eyes, and the familiar stab of guilt in House's gut. (But why should this be about him anyway? Wilson _always_ made it about him.)

"Why are you suddenly comparing your behaviour to mine? Doesn't that strike you as odd?" he added accusingly. House was _never_ the template for other people's actions.

Wilson sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, what _was_ I thinking?" He looked slightly deflated, and went staring at the tv blankly. House felt an unfamiliar impulse to fill the silence.

"If you'd gotten shot because you were, . ." House gestured vaguely with the remote, "whiny and self-righteous, or because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, it would make no difference. You'd still be – "

"_House_ – " Wilson raised his hand in warning. "I already said, it wasn't, - _personal_. It's not a big deal," he said firmly, and any lead that he had been extending towards House had retreated completely.

"Right," said House. Wilson shot him an exasperated look, as if the entire conversation had been his handiwork.

"I'm going to lie down," he announced, with an air of finality.

"Then who's going to cook?"

Wilson gave a small, weary snort of amusement and disappeared down the hall.

"Sure, take some me-time," muttered House. He listened to the footsteps die away towards his bedroom, and squeezed the remote hard in his hand. He'd lost his chance to get to the facts. Hell, he'd dropped a boulder on the train tracks.

And Wilson was back to rolling his eyes resignedly as if House had just been airing some theory about his sex life. He felt a burst of annoyance, at Wilson's aloofness and at himself, and at the fact that apparently an abundance of emotional and conversational foreplay was required to simply to find out the damn _truth_.

He grabbed his bike keys, and decided that this felt absolutely nothing like running away from the issue. That was more Wilson's thing; _House_ was just really hungry.

Wilson could probably use some space, anyway.

_

* * *

_

_Wilson was alone._

_It was quiet. He was still, wrapped and muffled as he was in so many blankets. He listened to the slow breathing, and it took him a while to realise that it was his own. It seemed synthetic; displaced; like someone's breath crackling down a phone-line from somewhere behind his ear. He could feel the rise and fall of the vent, holding his jaw immobile:_ in and out. In and out.

_In the black and white, with only this static-sounding rhythm, only his own body counting out the time, he was as still and removed as the man in the video footage . . . the first man on the moon._

_How long had he been here?_

_The ceiling was black, and his car would be nearby, gleaming like a silver fish that lurked in the corners of an aquarium. _

In and out_. Everything else was silent._

_He turned his head to the side, and saw the concrete below his cheek. It was cold, the ground; beyond the green fringe of blankets. But he was warm under the layers; a heat was pooling in his stomach and side, spreading up to his shoulder, and --- Was that a noise, creeping between each breath?_

_With a rush like vertigo, Wilson was suddenly aware of dizzying space outstretching beyond the crown of his head. He couldn't tilt back and see, but he could_ feel_ it: a vast, empty runway that unrolled towards him, and ended where he lay neatly bundled in the corner. And as he realised the stretches fanning out from behind his head, the damp heat in his side grew hotter and hotter, until it almost burned. _

_And he heard, far away - a footstep._

_Now he was straining to hear; the silence had been broken, and in the stillness there_ was _someone else -- another footstep. Another. Getting closer ._ . .

_They were growing louder, measured and louder as if following an invisible thread through the darkness, and Wilson knew with an absolute dread that the thread led_ here.

_He couldn't move. Worse than struggling: he was paralysed, in the grip of some fatal inertia that had severed the connection between body and brain. His shoulder and side hurt so badly now, flashing to a crescendo, but he was mute around the tube, tightly bound up like a package . . . His breathing was as steady as the footsteps_ (still coming) _even though his body was clamouring to panic, disconnected from fight or flight but _screaming_ to try --- _

_--- And the steps, metres away now, were slow and deliberate, but he was rooted to the ground,_

_Coming closer,_ closer ---

"_Ah! -- _" Wilson kicked and twisted: he could now, and he was; struggling breathlessly against the tangle of bedclothes in -- _in_ _the bed. _In House's room.

_Oh. _He stared down at the sheets. He was trembling, flushed with adrenaline, and then almost immediately with embarrassment. The sedate, solid furniture was silently positioned around him; and thank God, House must not have heard. He had tried to wrench out of the sling; the pain was real. He groped for the pills on the dresser and tried to calm his breathing.

_Fuck._ He never had nightmares. He kicked the remainder of the sheets away irritably from where they had bunched around his ankles, and shakily moved to stand; now everything hurt with the sharpest edge he'd felt for days. He brushed the sweat off his forehead. He felt as bad as he did after the dream that had recurred since med school, the only other nightmare he could recall having since he was a child, with all the backwards consults. He would be running around frantically and everyone - his parents, House, Cuddy, the hotel concierge - would casually inform him when they brushed past that they had cancer (_how come you didn't know that? Really, I'd have thought that you of all people should have known that! Where the hell have you been?!)_ and that he was too late: nothing could be done to save them.

To hell with this; he wanted the sling off, even if it was only for a while, and some sort of distraction, and then a shower. How much could he jar his arm sprawled on the couch?

In the hallway the quiet murmur of the tv made him feel a hundred times better in a moment. He wandered towards it. "House?"

He wasn't in the living room; wasn't in the kitchen. Wilson frowned, and rooted through a cupboard, carefully checking expiry dates. He needed House to undo the immobiliser, and then bitch about it, and demand some ambidextrous pancake-flipping in return. House could be guaranteed upon to smash you back to reality like a wrecking-ball. A couple of hours ago and Wilson had felt so distanced from him it had been painful; now he wanted nothing more than to have his ass of best friend around, solid and infuriating.

"House? House!" There was no answering shout. And in the cupboard, nothing but cornflakes and jam. _Typical._

"I've fallen and I can't get up," he called, taking a swig of water from the tap. Nothing. Wilson put the cornflakes on the counter and idly started tracing the kid's maze on the back of the box; soon the meds would kick in, and the warm kitchen light was doing the rest. He glanced down and saw the red-light on the answer-phone; maybe that was House. He tapped the button, and searched around for a bowl.

_You have: one new message. _

_House, it's me._ Cameron. House would eating pancakes in some Jersey diner while his patient was probably arresting. He dug around a drawer for a spoon.

_It's not autoimmune, _Cameron sighed down the phone, and Wilson smiled in sympathy. _The tests were all negative. _

Wilson heard the click of the front door, and saw the bike helmet sail across the room to land on the couch, accompanied by a shout of: "_Pizza!_ Get out of bed!" Wilson grinned.

_I went back to the parking-lot; no fungi or toxins. I think we can rule out environmental,_ continued Cameron's voice, and Wilson paused in the act of moving round the kitchen counter.

He'd misheard. He slowly turned his head and stared at the little red light, eyeing him beadily.

_So still no clues on what triggered the anaphylaxis, but ----_

But the rest of the sentence didn't filter in, swallowed by a cold, congealing certainty welling up inside him. Wilson watched House's rucksack soar, as if in slow motion, to join the helmet on the couch, and he heard the uneven hop as House turned to lock the door behind him.

_End of messages._

"Wilson?" House stepped into sight, unzipping his jacket with one hand, balancing two pizza boxes on the other. "Hey. I was too hungry to wait for the delivery guy," he said. "Which saves _you_ having to tip." House tilted his head, and frowned at Wilson with sharp blue eyes.

"Wilson?"

Wilson watched, seemingly from somewhere else entirely, as House took in his sleep-mussed hair, ghost-pale face and the blank, stunned expression in his eyes, and he thought: _parking-lot_. He felt a strange lunge in his gut. _Anaphylaxis. _He gripped the counter with white knuckles. _House._

Static roared in his ears; a cold, prickling sensation swept over him, upraising all the tiny hairs on his arms and neck. House stepped closer.

"Wilson? . . . Are you ok?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed this story; all comments are much appreciated! Sorry for the wait, here is the next part - **

* * *

House was far too close, scrutinising him, reaching out a hand towards his forehead. "Wilson? Seriously, you look like hell."

Wilson jerked away from the touch without letting go of the counter. There was nothing else holding him up, and nothing gluing his thoughts together. There was no coherence to anything. His elbow bumped the cupboard behind him, but it was his chest that hurt.

"Wilson?"

Everything was clouding up around him; warm pizza-fog was rising off the boxes on the counter, and it made him want to throw up. House was a shape that Wilson refused to look at, so he looked back into the red pinprick on the answer-phone, winking at him sharply through the haze.

"What?" was all he heard himself say, because no words were coming to his aid, to fill up the space that had opened up between them. House had no idea it was there; he sounded like he might even be concerned, and was moving closer, and Wilson couldn't stand it.

"You had a message," he said blankly, because he couldn't explain anything beyond that. He looked upwards and saw the sudden_ look_ flash in House's eyes, and it was if Wilson had been smacked awake; as if he had surfaced from a long dive below water. House looked uncertain, and Wilson felt the hollow feeling inside his chest fade, filling up with a burning, crimson fury.

"He's your new patient?" Even though it must be fact, it came out as a question, because he didn't understand: Wilson had always tried to protect House. How could House be protecting the man who'd cheerfully left him to bleed to death like _road kill_?

House didn't answer; he just looked upwards for a moment, in a kind of silent sigh, and scrubbed his hand over his forehead. Resigned, and trapped, and tired. "House?"

"I told them not to call here," he muttered finally, apparently not to Wilson, but to the world in general. He shifted awkwardly, covering his guilt by scowling at the counter in annoyance. "I knew they wouldn't be able to --"

"Yeah, how could they?" snapped Wilson. House looked up, as if surprised by the scorn in his voice. "_He's_ your new patient? The guy who -- " Wilson stopped himself; he could hear his voice rising and tried to keep it from shaking. "Why would you . . . ?" House didn't meet his eyes, but cast a furtive look at his white-knuckled grip on the counter, and Wilson felt his fury redouble, casting upset aside.

"Why am I even surprised? Of _course_ he's your new patient! I can't believe I hadn't figured it out yet. Of course you couldn't resist the opportunity to_ mess_ with me!"

House straightened and glared. "Look, --"

"You must have jumped at the opportunity. Is he even sick? Or are you just keeping him in the hospital for entertainment value?!"

"Trust me, I didn't _jump_ at anything," snarled House. There was a silence for a few seconds, and Wilson realised he was breathing very fast and sweating, and he swallowed. If his arm wasn't pinioned to his chest, he would probably have punched House by now. "I didn't mean for you to find out like this," House said softly. "I didn't . . ." He shrugged. "The guy is actually sick."

"And you're his doctor," stated Wilson flatly. He sounded calm, as if the idea didn't make him feel like someone had seized his insides and squeezed. He didn't understand how House could feel nothing on Wilson's behalf; how he could be so utterly _separate,_ from his closest friend.

"He's sick," repeated House. "I didn't plan . . .," he trailed off, grimacing, and Wilson thought he might be about to apologise, but instead he glowered at the floor. "Turns out that fascists need TLC too."

The fight had just been draining out of Wilson; he was feeling light-headed and weak, and so it took several seconds for things to connect up in his brain. _Fascists_, House had said.

House winced slightly, realising his mistake, and Wilson stared at him, dumbfounded. Over the ringing in his ears, he heard an echo of a voice again, smiling and whispering in his ear: _fucking Jew. _

How did House know anything about that?

Wilson nearly staggered. "How -- ? You - you've been talking to_ him_, about - ?"

"No," said House quickly, "I haven't spoken to him. I didn't --"

"Then what? You read the _police report_?!" Wilson clutched the counter as all the blood rushed from his head; fury and mortification made his breathing catch on something inside his chest. "You read my _statement_?"

House was already opening his mouth to deny it, looking more worried than Wilson had seen him, but there was no other explanation for how he could know -- _know about_ everything _that had happened to him, known it all along_, and he had to let go of the counter to bring his hand to his head, sick with the realisation.

House said something, and reached out to touch him, or to steady him or something, and Wilson pulled backwards out of his grasp in disgust. "You - son of a bitch, - "

"Would you calm down? You're going to --"

"C_alm down?!_ You -- do you think this is some kind of _joke_?!" If Wilson could, he'd smash in House's stupid, exasperated face, because he wasn't sure that his words were making much sense.

"Look," said House, with an air of weariness that made Wilson want to scream, "I didn't actually - "

"Shut up!" shouted Wilson. "Just _shut up_! You _always_ have to know! This whole thing was just a puzzle to you, and you already knew! All those conversations? And you were just asking to see if I'd say -- I thought you actually gave a damn, and you just brought me back here for _observation_!"

Some distant part of him noticed that House looked stricken, but Wilson didn't care. Every shameful, terrifying detail must have been pinned out like a butterfly for House's private inspection. Wilson had been studied and dissected without warning, without even knowing; House had left him totally bare, and that stripped House of any right to show weakness ever again. So he didn't stop, and he didn't care what he said as long as it might hurt, because he hadn't felt anything as uncomplicated and certain as this anger for such a_ long_ time.

Wilson wasn't entirely sure what else he yelled, and it took him a few seconds to realise when he'd stopped. But he could hear his breath sawing in and out in the quiet apartment, so he must have. He felt dizzy again, and his arm was still trapped with no one to help him undo it.

"Fuck you, House." He dropped his gaze back to the floor and tried to not hyperventilate. "Don't talk to me."

Nothing moved for a little while, and then there was the jingle of keys. Wilson looked up, feeling on the verge of a faint from expending so much energy that he'd never had in the first place, and wondered how he could ever thought House had looked hurt just a few seconds ago. His face was as cold and impassive as a mask.

"Fascinating insights." House stumped towards the door, grabbing his bike helmet on the way. "Don't worry,I'll save you the dramatic exit," he added scathingly, making Wilson acutely aware of the fact he was barely standing upright against House's kitchen cupboards. "Seems I'm needed at work. Maybe I can do something useful for my _patient_."

The door slammed before the barb had made itself heard in Wilson's still-stunned brain. His stomach tightened; a bolt of pain shot through his arm; and then, finally, he turned around, and vomited into the sink.


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story! Sorry for the delay in updating - **

**Here is Chapter Fourteen, Part One.**

* * *

_Fuck you, House._

The door smacked closed behind him with a satisfying thud, and then House was gouging his way across the lobby floor, leaving a trail of muddy dots behind him.

_Son of a bitch. Couldn't resist the chance to mess with me ---_

A nurse eyed his progress across the linoleum and glowered at him. He practically snarled back. He jabbed at the elevator; heard the distant creak from above him; watched the button burn red.

_Don't talk to me._

_With pleasure,_ he thought bitterly.

"House!"

He jabbed the button a few more times, but it was too late. He swivelled round to face Cuddy, who was wrapped in her winter coat, clearly on the verge of leaving, and looking at him with deep suspicion. "It's past eight," she said, narrowing her eyes. "What are you doing back here? Patient crash?"

"Unfortunately, he's stable." He stepped into the elevator and then glared in annoyance when she followed suit. "Treatment's not working."

"So you rushed back to work," she said flatly. "You didn't want to be within fifty feet of this case last week. I thought you were meant to be looking after Wilson?"

"He's not a goldfish," snapped House. "I left the remote within cripple distance. He'll be fine."

"He's sick! The whole point of him moving in with you was that you might actually _be_ there -"

"I said, he's_ fine_. He wanted some alone time, and I wanted to actually do my damn job, so -- " He strode out of the elevator, and felt a hand catch his sleeve.

"House." Suddenly she sounded alarmingly earnest, and he turned around despite himself. "You told him?" Cuddy stared at him, her eyes wide and curious; no doubt taking in the sag of his shoulders and his general air of exhaustion, as he tried to look at anything but her.

"Not me," he muttered. There was a pause, until House finally had to risk a glance at her face. She looked concerned (_guilty_) and he felt a stab of empathy along with irritation - irritation that she was his conspirator in this situation; that she was dumb enough to look upset when it had always been obvious that this would happen. From the moment she'd lured him into her office - how could she not have seen that it was inevitable?

"How did he take it?"

"He's thrilled," said House sourly. Cuddy folded her arms and gave him a warning look.

"What did he say?"

"What did you think he was going to say? 'Mazel tov'? Seeing as how it's barely been a week since the guy decided to skewer him, I think you can assume he took it fairly personally -- " He stopped himself before he could let his anger run on. It was worse than pointless to adopt the other side of the argument - Wilson's side (_and when had that stopped being _his_ side?_ he wondered, with a jolt in his chest). He'd sacrificed the right to fight from that corner.

"You didn't tell him?"

"He . . . heard a message on the answer-phone." Cuddy winced.

"I'm guessing he was pretty upset," she murmured quietly.

"It's Wilson. He's always had a flair for melodrama." He shrugged, and tried to sound lighter than he felt. "He needed to yell at someone anyway. He's been disgustingly calm about this whole thing."

"Right," said Cuddy dryly, but eyeing him kindly all the same. "You wanted to get him mad. I'm sure this is just how you planned it."

"Alright, so maybe not exactly like this," House admitted. "I probably would've just hidden his sling or something."

She gave him a small smile. "Is he, . . . ok?"

House's immediate impulse was to say _He's fine_, with enough vehemence to make her drop the subject (especially now that he was pissed at Wilson, he reminded himself). But that didn't change the fact that Wilson's histrionics had left him on the verge of collapse - _idiot_, he thought savagely - and House had walked out. A month ago he would have all too happily decided that whatever damage Wilson inflicted on himself whilst denouncing House would _serve him right_ - but now, . . . He was still a moron, and he could still go to hell, but House hadn't spent an entire evening glued to Wilson's surgery, screwing up his leg, just so that Wilson could have some stupid, ironic _accident_ before House could yell back.

_Red and white hands_, he recalled; the surgery; the calm, still body. House imagined coming home to silence, and red-slicked bathroom tiles.

"You could check on him," he said suddenly, his mouth very dry. "Obviously you want to play nursemaid," he amended, trying to sound as scornful as possible. "And we both know that I'm the only one of us who actually has better things to do." Cuddy rolled her eyes and nodded, and House felt his stomach unclench slightly. Good. If Wilson was taken care of (_and fuck Wilson, saying those things to him_,) then House could go back to concentrating on what a jerk he was.

_I thought you actually gave a damn --_

Not that he particularly wanted to think about that, either.

He nodded at Cuddy and headed towards his office. Harvey might be the root of the problem, but right now he could double up and serve as a distraction. If he could just solve the damn case . . . The situation wouldn't be fixed; it wouldn't be over -- but at least he'd have solved _something_.

* * *

House sat at his desk, glowering at the scrawled list of symptoms.

_How did he take it?  
He was thrilled._

Wilson had been . . . Not _flabbergasted_, because that was a word House always enjoyed using, and he knew that one; saw it on a daily basis as Wilson gaped around for words, eyebrows skirting his hair line. That one was fun.

Not even _lost_, although it was a closer match. If you factored in some extra bewilderment, upset, and a look like House had just socked him in the gut.

For the first time, House wished Wilson had a better poker face.

Was all this because he was treating (_failing to treat_, sniped a little voice in his head) Harvey? Because House hadn't told him about it? Or because Wilson thought House had somehow wormed out all the intricacies of whatever had happened to him? Sure, House had _wanted_ to know, and if he'd had less distractions he probably would have put a lot more effort into actually finding out, but for once he was doing the time without committing the crime. He couldn't be punished for _wanting to know_, he decided. Wilson had been around him for long enough; he couldn't possibly get worked up about the fact House would want to know. That would be like House condemning Wilson for wanting to help snivelling nurses in distress.

_Maybe it didn't matter_. He was trying to fix _Harvey_. Wilson was irrelevant to the diagnosis, and he needed to concentrate. Harvey could still be fixed; Wilson -- House had pushed, and whatever was there had probably, finally, broken. Wilson had looked at him like he was _foreign_ somehow, like he was suddenly incomprehensible - or worse, like he was finally understanding him for the first time. House - everything he'd done, every question he'd asked, even offering up his home, _everything_ - it had been translated. Every word had been refocused through the lens of this one act, and House had to admit that, given that spin, he was screwed. For someone _without _his heartless, prying reputation, it was still pretty hard to justify multitasking a friend's recovery with frantic work to save his assailant. If it mattered so much to Wilson why Harvey had stabbed him, . . . Then it was going to matter why House was trying to save him.

Wilson was probably going to try and examine _him _now; establish a motive, deliver judgement. House bristled at the idea. Of course, that was if he was lucky. Wilson might decide just not to bother. It wasn't as if House had anything to offer that was worth that kind of work.

"Any ideas?" asked Foreman, striding into his office. Chase and Cameron trailed after him; Chase looked disgruntled, as always when he was made to stay late; Cameron was standing the furthest away. Of course, she didn't know yet that her self-righteous little putsch had worked.

"Maybe, - " Chase scrubbed a hand through his hair hopelessly, "maybe one of our assumptions is wrong. Maybe the anaphylaxis wasn't anaphylaxis."

"And maybe his cardiovascular collapse was just a hiccup," suggested Cameron, rolling her eyes. "The symptoms are right. We just - don't have a fit."

"We can isolate the infection," said Foreman, "we rule that out as a different problem." They all turned and looked at him expectantly. There was pause.

"Everything's related," said House, tapping the desk. Foreman glared at him.

"I thought we _decided_ --"

"The infection might not be what brought him in, but it's still a part of this - _thing_. Part of the picture. What we have here -- is a chain of circumstances. We have an action, we have a consequence, action, consequence. We need a reason that explains the sequence."

"What, no metaphor?" snapped Foreman. "That doesn't help us with anything!"

"Ok, let's try that again, for the _slower _members of the class. What we have is . . . a domino run. That better?" he asked witheringly. "It doesn't matter what got the last few dominos tumbling, we need to find what decided to come and knock the first one over." He stared at the symptoms, and let his eyes unfocus. "If from the beginning, this was inevitable . . ."

He felt all the pieces start to sidle into sequence, but without the usual flash of satisfaction; instead he had a sinking feeling. Nothing felt different; the answer might be right, but nothing felt like it had been solved. "Inevitable," he declared slowly.

"We've been blindsided. It's not _what _triggered the anaphylaxis, it's _why_. Why does an adult male _suddenly develop_ anaphylaxis? Whatever caused it can't be that obscure, it was a Jersey parking lot. And the next question is _why _does he still feel crap after we've flooded his system with anti-histamines, and then _why_ the anaesthesia we gave him triggered a collapse . . . "

"You're saying we did this?" asked Chase, unimpressed.

"I'm saying - link up abdominal pain and low blood pressure with severe, sudden onset anaphylaxis, and ignore all the crap that happened after we pumped him full of drugs."

" . . Adult onset Mastocytosis?" said Cameron. "No, . . . no skin lesions, no rash --"

"Unless he's in the lucky 1 per cent of the 0.1 per cent of patients who don't present with skin lesions," said House lightly. "Explains everything - spleen, ulcers, fainting, and the original anaphylaxis. Mix it up with an infection he picked up in here, and the system failure _we_ caused with the anaesthesia, and we're done."

None of his team looked particularly convinced. "We . . . should establish what the trigger was, or this could happen again as soon as we let him out of the hospital," said Chase uncertainly.

"Fine. You do that." He nodded to Foreman. "You, go do a bone marrow biopsy to confirm --"

"No way," snorted Foreman. "The guy's a racist asshole. He's not gonna let me get close enough to biopsy, and I don't _want_ to get close enough to biopsy. I'll swap with Chase."

"Forget it." House rolled his eyes. "Help Chase. God forbid the patient should offend your sensibilities." No objections to Harvey stabbing a colleague, but perish forbid he might drop the N-bomb, he thought darkly. He sighed and pointed his pen like a rapier. "Cameron, do the biopsy." He narrowed his eyes and fixed her with a hard look. "I'm sure we can guarantee that you'll make it as painful as possible in your quest for justice."

House swivelled back around in his chair, and glowered out of the window. _Was that it? _Was he right? The footsteps trailed out of the doorway.

All except one set. "I'm pretty sure he's not going to be all that keen to stab _himself_," House said to the silence behind him. "Go do the biopsy."

"House . . . If I'm being punished for -- "

"Since when did telling you to do your job classify as punishment?" snapped House, spinning round. "Why don't you just skip to the real question: if your cunning little plan to inform Wilson about Harvey worked, and whether I'm going to be mad about it." Cameron actually looked shocked, her eyes wide, and House was reminded of Wilson, looking at him like a spaniel that had been kicked shivering out into the yard.

"I didn't think Wilson would hear the message," she said, with a surprising degree of sincerity. "This wasn't a - a _plan_ to let Wilson find out. I was doing my job by informing you about the fact your patient was --"

"Right. You were just drowning in concern for a guy you have no inclination to treat, and just had to call me at home." Cameron's lips compressed into a tight, thin line.

"This isn't about you," she said coldly. "I didn't agree to become involved in your deception, I agreed to treat Harvey, which is what I've been doing and why I called you. I'm not going to apologise because your plan backfired!"

House clenched his knuckles around the edge of the desk, and stared at his hands. "Then don't. _Go - do - the biopsy_," he snarled, with deliberate menace. Cameron ignored him and folded her arms defiantly.

"You're just mad because you couldn't control the circumstances, and your plan was ruined," she said angrily. "I've done nothing wrong!"

She paused, and added, as a calm, curt afterthought, "Wilson deserved to know." House looked up, eyes flashing with fury:

"He _deserved_ to be _told_!"

There was a breathless, heated silence and for a second, Cameron looked like she was going to say something, looking at him with something like pity or apology - he couldn't tell which. "I'll let you know the results," was all that came out. Then he was on his own again. He reached for the eraser, but stopped himself. No point wiping out the symptoms just yet.

There was nothing else to do here. Waiting had never been House's strong point. He wasn't sure why he was so hesitant, then, to go back to his own damn apartment.

Cuddy would have called if Wilson had managed to concuss himself, and Wilson would have certainly tried to drag himself back to some semblance of normality if he had a visitor. House tried to recapture some of his anger from earlier, tried to remember how he'd felt when Wilson had been standing there shouting at him, but it had fled and abandoned him along with any clue of what to do next.

It should have been enough, he knew, that Wilson was still around; he should be grateful to have him standing there in his kitchen, out of danger and yelling. But House wasn't that selfless. This wasn't about Wilson; it was _always_ about House and Wilson, about the two of them together, and right now there was nothing to be thankful for. He might have diagnosed Harvey, but he didn't know if he could fix this.

But he could even the balance a little, he thought, with a reluctant tug in his stomach. It was the least he could do, which was still more than he was comfortable doing. And he might fail: he'd have to explain,_ expose_ himself somehow, and it _still_ might not be enough, . . . It sucked, and the idea made him squirm a little in his seat, but he could make the same effort for Wilson that he'd made for the man down the corridor.

He could_ try_.


	15. Chapter 15

**See this bit as Chapter Fourteen, part B; Wilson's side of the coin, if you get me, from when House storms out. Let me know what you think:**

* * *

Wilson tried to find the ceiling interesting. He wasn't sure that he could move, and so there was absolutely nothing else to look at. He lay supine on the couch and concentrated on not throwing up.

His plan to reach the bedroom had been abandoned after about two steps. Lack of sleep and a violently emptied stomach had conspired with his meds to knock him flat on his back - and yet here he was, drug-addled and _still _waiting for the actual _pain relief_ part to kick in. _No wonder House took so many pre-emptive Vicodin. _He didn't want to sleep either; not on the couch, exposed for when House made his next entrance, and not while tendrils of his last dream were still snaking listlessly around his head.

House - unsurprisingly, - had a cobweb on his ceiling. Wilson shifted slightly, trying to spot the spider, and then swore at the concentrated jab of pain that followed the movement. _Everything _hurt. Arm, head, side, _everything –_ everything except his hand, of course. Because he couldn't _feel_ that, because it was probably permanently numb; and all because some _yahoo_ had decided that Wilson would suit some extra ventilation. Wilson clenched his one fist, pressed it as hard as he could against his forehead and swore again at the empty room.

_Anaphylaxis, _he thought furiously. _What would House be treating next? Splinters? Toothache?! _

Painful wrestling with the various straps and buckles of the immobiliser had finally gotten them undone, despite the fact he'd felt as if he was dissolving into an impotent, childish tantrum as he'd tugged and wrenched and cursed, - but now he was reluctant to actually yank his arm out of the loose wrapping, too tired and pained to brave the final tug on the band-aid. A half-assed bid for freedom, and he had slumped back on the couch in defeat. He hadn't moved since.

Which was pathetic, because he wanted to storm out. Pack, and get out. His fury hadn't calmed one iota; his mind was cloudy and red with it, his jaw tight with it, but the rest of him wanted to curl up in his bed and fall away from everything. _Which was stupid, because it wasn't 'his' bed,_ fumed Wilson, _it was _House's _bed, and he'd trapped him here, not as a guest - as a project, a research subject; a _bug_ beneath a lens. _

Had House sat, tapping his cane, throwing his ball around his office, turning over each word of Wilson's statement, scrutinising every humbling detail - in the hope it might reveal some clue to help his _patient?!_ The idea, the _betrayal,_ made him feel like he'd been plunged into ice.

Or had it just been curiosity? House's own twisted brand of concern? Wilson snorted and pinched his nose. And to think he'd _missed_ House's attention when he'd been bored and stuck at hospital. At least the mystery of where House had vanished to was solved. No vanishing now; he was stuck in House's orbit.

Before, Wilson would have circled, watching, knowing what happened when House was poked, when pressure was exerted: House would explode, supernova-style, or collapse in on himself, and either way Wilson would have ended up following for the ride, scorched or sunk alongside him. This time, he had no idea. He wasn't sure what he'd even _said_ to House, if House even gave a damn, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be travelling alongside him. Not even Wilson could create a get-out clause for this one (even when he was stupid enough to want to, and he could _hear _House's voice scornfully sounding in his head: _God, you're pathetic._)

Well, he wasn't just going to _take_ this: he wasn't going to shrug it off and ---

There was a rap at the door, and Wilson froze. _Crap._ He didn't want to be sprawled and miserable when House came home; he wanted to be aloof, coping icily in a different room, or possibly a different state --

The door was off the latch; House hadn't locked it behind him, and Wilson was just wondering when House had started knocking on doors rather than barrelling into them, when it was pushed open. He dragged himself into a semi-upright, hopefully more dignified position as Cuddy stepped into the apartment. _Of course. _Why did she have to drop by _now,_ when he must look like absolute crap?

"Hey," she said, giving him a hesitant smile. She looked supremely awkward, and Wilson wondered if it made him a bastard to want her to feel awkward enough to turn around and leave. He felt as if he'd spent the last hour being methodically driven over and over by a particularly massive monster truck.

"I figured House's brand of nursing might not stretch to actually cooking for you, so --" Her gaze moved around from his position on the sofa to the cooling, discarded pizzas on the counter. " -- So I guess you're not hungry?"

He swallowed and tried to look pleased to see her. "Thanks, that's . . . Uh, I was just," - _sitting on your ass moping,_ jeered House's voice, " . . about to take a shower."

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she said apologetically, and something about the look on her face kicked Wilson into action.

"No, no, sorry, come in --" Cuddy halted him as he started to rise off the couch (and if his natural sense of chivalry was a little stung, the rest of him was unabashedly grateful he slumped back dizzily onto the cushions)."Please don't play host. It's just too weird in _this_ apartment." She smoothed her skirt and eyed his slightly glazed expression. "Are you feeling ok?"

"Yeah, just tired. Fine, really," he said, aware that it didn't sound remotely credible. As this was Cuddy, not House, she let him get away with it and nodded sympathetically.

"You should eat something. I'm guessing not pizza -- you want me to fix you something while you're in the shower?" Wilson felt strangely off-balance, sitting below her, being _visited_ by her, and started stammering a polite refusal;

"Oh, I can --"

"I know you _can_," she said warmly, "but I'm offering. And I'm not that bad a cook, I promise. Although I'm guessing I don't have much to work with," she added, eyeing House's kitchen resignedly. "I don't get to cook for other people very often. See it as a rare opportunity." Her smile was so well-meaning that Wilson surrendered.

"Thanks," he said, and found that he meant it. He'd rather be alone, but at least this way he wouldn't have to think about any of it, - and it was _nice_ to receive some non-industrial, _human_ care that he wasn't going get billed for later. She grinned, suddenly much more relaxed, and Wilson tried to follow her example.

"For an oncologist, you make a lousy patient," she pointed out, stepping back as he levered himself carefully off the sofa. "You'll probably be the first member of my staff who doesn't try to blackmail me into giving them six months paid rehab."

"I figured five," he said, cautiously eyeing the walls for any signs that they might start spinning. "I've actually booked a flight to Rio."

"Funny," she said dryly. "I'd have you pegged as more of a Lake Tahoe guy -" her arm came up, and tapped his forearm lightly. "Need a hand?"

"Uh, -- " Already her fingers were skating lightly over the immobiliser, peeling back the stiff cloth from his arm. "My aunt had to wear one of these for three months," she said by way of commentary, ignoring his wince with polished professionalism. "She said it was hell."

"She was right," said Wilson immediately.

"That's medicine," she muttered, tossing the sling onto the couch. "You'll know that better than anyone on the staff. Cruel to be kind."

"Yeah," said Wilson faintly. Maybe he _should _eat something.

Mercifully, Cuddy didn't offer to help undress him. "Call if you need anything," she said firmly. "I'll be in the kitchen. Don't lock the door."

* * *

He ended up washing at the sink to avoid the bandages, but the clean water still splashed him back from whatever medicinal haze he'd been floating in. Cuddy had somehow conjured tomato soup from the kitchen (House must have been out of the traditional chicken) and had slipped off her heels, and something about having her sitting with him, relaxed and smiling, seemed to warm him up from the inside.

So his guard was completely down when Cuddy cleared her throat and said, "I heard you found out that House, . . . Is treating Harvey."

And suddenly, Wilson wasn't hungry. He stared at his knees.

"That's his name?"

There was a deep, embarrassed silence, but he didn't make the courtesy of breaking it. _Harvey._ He'd known a kid in junior high called Harvey. Pug-faced, he remembered vaguely, ginger and dim-witted. And now Shirty had an identity; dragged out of the half-light and given a whole new context. _Thanks, House._

"I know this must be -- _incredibly_ difficult for you," she began haltingly. "I'm sure you don't want me talking about it, and you -- probably don't want to think about it, but I just thought that --"

"You really don't have to explain it to me," he said, and his voice sounded harsher than he'd intended. "I get it; he needs treatment. I don't need a presentation on the Hippocratic oath." Cuddy bit her lip and tried again.

"Of course, I didn't mean . . . He, -- _Harvey,_ -- it must have been unsettling, having him around the hospital -- "

"He's about ten years younger than me," said Wilson angrily - did she think he was a coward? "I'm not an idiot, I'm not _freaking out _because we shared the same roof for a few nights."

"That's not what I was saying. I just -- " She gestured helplessly and looked at the ceiling. " House . . . House didn't _want_ to take his case. He didn't -- "

"Oh, _don't_!" snapped Wilson, pushing the bowl off his knees and glaring at her. "Don't excuse his curiosity!" Cuddy looked taken aback by his vehemence. "He wanted to screw with me. That's nothing new."

"He's not _enjoying _this," she insisted. "This isn't fun for him either." Wilson, already tight-lipped, just looked at her. "Oh, - I know he's a jerk, I know you have to put up with huge amounts of crap just to _interact _with the man, but you can't think he's actually pleased with this situation?" She paused and rolled her eyes. "Of course, it's _House, _so I'm sure he hasn't _told_ you any of this, but he was terrified when you were brought in! I couldn't tear him off the observation balcony, and then -- "

"Just _-- don't,_ ok?" He held up a hand and gritted his teeth. _Perfect. _To hell with metaphor; House had _literally _seen his innards. As if it wasn't enough that he'd somehow weaselled access to the details of his total humiliation. And now both them, House and Cuddy, thought it shouldn't matter; both of them wanted him to shrug it off.

_Of course he does,_ he thought bitterly._ He expects it. _Now House had seen written proof that Wilson never fought back.

"Wilson." He glanced up, and saw her looking at him kindly. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve all this. But you _should_ know." She waved an arm resignedly. "It's as much my fault - the circumstances -- I didn't have many options. I . . . I practically had to force him."

Wilson stared. _It's not her fault,_ he reminded himself. _It's her job. Hospital policy. _He realised that she too, and House's team, all of them must have okayed this, but -- _but it would have been ridiculous to expect anything else_. Cuddy had acted professionally and allocated a doctor to the case; House's fellows had acted professionally and treated the patient they were presented with. It stung a little, but not that much.

She was trying to excuse House, though, and she wouldn't be able to, and that made some secret, sensitive part of him curl up in misery. The person he most wanted on his side, the person he most wanted to forgive - the only person who _needed _forgiveness here, and the only person who shouldn't fucking deserve it, -

"When have you ever made House do anything that he didn't want to do?" he asked wearily. That was the problem, really; the unpleasant truth that sealed the deal, so Wilson was surprised when Cuddy leaned forward and cleared her throat. He'd expected a sigh; a slump of her shoulders; a silent nod of defeat.

"Wilson, -- I couldn't even _begin _to try and explain House to anyone." She smiled weakly and raised her hands. "The man's insane. But if you think he did this, . . . just to _get_ at you --" Wilson glanced up at her sharply "-- He didn't want this," she said, looking at him earnestly. "He took Harvey's case _in spite_ of what happened. Not because of it."

She looked so unbearably sincere that Wilson looked away for a second and stared blankly at the back of his hand. His brain seemed to have staggered to halt, but he felt a strong pressure to say _something_, to break the weight of her stare. Because he was currently acting like an idiot, it ended up being: "Nice soup."

Cuddy exhaled a small chuckle and nodded. "Right."

" . . . So House is being a nightmare, huh?" She smiled again, tiredly, but with a strange fondness.

"Pretty much. Every time I go to the fourth floor the walls are trembling." Wilson tilted his head in acknowledgement. Cuddy would probably tell him anything if it got her hospital running smoothly, he thought with amused cynicism. _No wonder she wanted . . ._

But all the same . . .

"Have you changed the dressing on that since you left hospital?" she asked suddenly. Wilson shook his head, and frowned when she got briskly to her feet.

"Um, it's probably ok for --"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to take advantage of you. The soup wasn't seduction, I just thought you looked hungry. Go lie down." She smiled at his expression. "I promise to be as quick as possible."

"Uh --,"

Cuddy vanished into the bathroom in an efficient swish, and Wilson tried to wipe the stunned look off his face. He walked slowly into the bedroom and sat down awkwardly, swallowing a pill from the nightstand with his stale cup of water. A moment later the immobiliser - he actually glared at it as it sailed through the doorway, - landed beside him on the bed, and Cuddy was there, with a box of supplies that House must have brought home from the hospital. The realisation made his chest ache slightly.

"Lay back," she said authoritatively, and Wilson's eyebrows crept upwards as he lay back.

"Well, this feels -- inappropriate," he commented, staring at the ceiling and feeling cool fingers peel up the fabric of his shirt. Luckily he was either too drugged or too tired to feel embarrassed, but he still found himself trying not to think about all the scenarios he'd imagined where Cuddy would be taking off his shirt in bed, and how not one of them had been anything like this.

"You're a _doctor,_" she said, rolling her eyes. He shrugged into the bed. How did that change the fact that this was weird?

"It could be House," she reminded him.

"Point taken." House would mock him mercilessly doing something like this. Wilson would have tried to suffocate one of them with a pillow by now.

_Was Cuddy right?_ He tried to remember the expression on House's face after he'd been yelling, and not just for the dark satisfaction it brought him. Because he needed _some _clue this was more than a game to him - he knew, pathetically enough, that he _wanted_ one, would cling to one, if it carried any ring of truth, because otherwise . . . Otherwise, there was this _distance _between them like never before; or at least, if it had always been there, it was illuminated for Wilson for the first time, drowning out all the little acts he had taken as confirmation that something stronger had spanned it. He couldn't take anymore after the week he'd had; pinned against walls, tucked tight into beds and now trapped in _House's_ goddamn apartment.

"That's healing nicely," said Cuddy, and Wilson blinked. He felt incredibly tired now; he'd forgotten Cuddy was in the room, and the woman's _hands _were on his stomach. He managed a nod, and furiously tried to focus on the ceiling. _Cripple card, _he thought vaguely. It couldn't rude to get stoned in front of visitors if you had a hand-sized hole in your side.

He would save his energy for when House got home. And this time _he'd_ be the one looking for answers, no matter what they were, no matter how cold and unyielding. He wanted to believe Cuddy; he wanted his friend back - but that was _why _he couldn't gamble on this, why he had to find out. It was too late to pretend that the answer didn't matter now, now the distance was there, so -- (his eyes had slipped closed at some point. _How strong was that pill anyway?_) so . . so what? He frowned. So _questions_ had to be asked. That was right. Wilson felt something loosen in his chest. He was going to take _control _of something. It was House's turn under the lens, he thought sleepily, and Cuddy murmured something that floated away over his head, and he turned his face into the pillow.


	16. Chapter 16

**Sorry for the delay everyone! I hope people are still enjoying this story - I have no beta, so let me know what you think; feedback is always appreciated. Another update coming soon.**

* * *

The apartment was silent when House finally returned. It felt strangely empty.

All the lights had been switched off, and there was no evidence that Cuddy had stopped by like she'd promised. House poked around the debris in the kitchen before ducking his head into the bathroom, half expecting to see Wilson prostrate on a water-slick floor. House could remember his first week at home after the infarction with merciless clarity, but it seemed that Wilson was, in certain ways, a smarter cripple than him. He'd even left the toilet seat down.

To his annoyance, House found himself quietly nudging the bedroom door open. _And what else had he expected?_ Wilson was asleep on his bed, scowling comically into the pillow. He'd fallen asleep on top of the bedclothes, but someone had drawn a spare blanket over him, and House realised that Cuddy must have visited after all. He felt a smirk uncurl in the darkness. _Interesting._

House anticipated the forthcoming interrogation with a rising bubble of glee, until he remembered that Wilson might not be talking to him. His suitcase hadn't been packed, but that didn't mean anything. If Wilson wasn't incapable of packing without pressing his socks first, he'd probably be gone by now. House had finally given him the perfect get-out.

He shut the door with a soft _click_ and stood in the hallway, unsure of what to do next. Which seemed unfair. It was _his _damn apartment.

He found himself in front of the tv, volume turned down low, trying to distract himself by diagnosing the guests on _Jerry Springer_. After his fifth verdict of _psychosis_ he gave up, poured himself a scotch and stared up at the spider scuttling around his ceiling, spinning its web wider and wider across the plaster.

Wilson was going to wake up, and then he was going to leave. There was nothing House could bring himself to say that could undo it. He shut his eyes, and tried to let the darkness smooth down the thoughts in his brain and drift away in sleep.

What happened next, he realised uncomfortably, was almost entirely up to him.

_Fuck._

* * *

Wilson drifted awake and managed to peel his eyes open. His brain felt like it had been wrapped in a thick grey blanket. After a few seconds of blinking owlishly at the dent his face had left in the bedclothes, he remembered that he had passed out _in front of_ Cuddy. He stared at the clean dressing on his side and buried his face into the pillow in horror. _Perfect._ He just hoped he hadn't drooled on the pillow.

After a muted growl into the cotton that did absolutely nothing to exorcise his feelings, he dragged himself upright and stared at the door. House must be back by now, and his morning meds were still on the counter in the kitchen. And he wasn't going to hide out in the bedroom and suffer quietly, he decided, when House was the bastard. It was surprisingly easy to recapture his sang-froid, and when he opened the door and started down the hallway, he was practically exuding ice. He walked straight past House's questioning glance from the couch and snatched the cereal box off the counter.

His meds had moved from their previous position on the tabletop, and Wilson wondered if Cuddy had decided on an extra ingredient in his soup. At the same moment that he realised someone had helpfully screwed the lid _back on_ to his stupid childproof bottle, he heard a step behind him, and House loomed over his shoulder.

Wilson summoned his coldest stare and turned around. House flicked his gaze down to the sealed bottle, and then back up to Wilson's taut expression, and of _course_ there was the barest hint of a smirk twitching the corner of his mouth. Wilson's glare could have cracked glass.

"Hilarious," he snapped.

House reached for the bottle. "Luckily, _I'm _not the sort of man who would arbitrarily withhold pain meds from a patient." He tipped two pills into his palm, and despite his tone, he extended his hand towards Wilson with an almost nervous expression on his face. Wilson ignored it, and grabbed a single pill. "You don't get bonus points for not finishing your scrip," House snarled. He'd stumped halfway back across the living room before he seemed to catch himself, and paused in the centre of the room, bouncing his cane up and down on the floor. Wilson swallowed the tablet and waited.

"So, . . . Are you moving out?" House's eyes were averted, fixed on the bobbing rubber tip of his cane. It was several seconds before his eyes flashed up to Wilson's face. And it really shouldn't be anything like enough, those little tells; the forcedly casual tone that House couldn't _quite_ carry off, but it was enough that Wilson felt the fury bunching in his muscles begin to ebb.

"I . . . don't know," he admitted. House nodded.

"I guess . . . you want to _talk_," he muttered after the seconds had stretched on for long enough, and the mixture of dread and disgust in his voice made Wilson glare at him.

"Is there really any point? I'm sure there's nothing left to say that you haven't already found out. I'm sure you've already got all the relevant details written out on your whiteboard somewhere. Would you have shown _any _interest in this guy if he hadn't tried to _kill_ me?!" Wilson's free hand automatically came up to rest on his hip. "I bet you couldn't wait to get in there and have a heart to heart!"

House rolled his eyes theatrically. "Oh, for --"

"Of course," interrupted Wilson, now rushing along helplessly on a wave of resentment, "you couldn't just leave it, when it must have been so _interesting_ for you to find out every little thing. I'm sure you had fun, speaking to the person who -- " He stopped, and like a wolf scenting weakness, House's eyes snapped back to his face.

"You think I've been chatting to Harvey," House declared, as if this had only just been established.

"_Yes_!" shouted Wilson. He gripped the counter in frustration, trying to let the silence fill him up. "My family, my wives; you've already interrogated them. Why the hell would this be any different?"

"Yeah, I just love talking about you nearly _dying_. I'm all shook up the other guys got away, robbed me of my fun. Of _course _it's different, you moron!" They glared at each other for a few seconds, and then House scrubbed his hand across his forehead and said, in a patronisingly calm voice; "I didn't _chat _to him. I haven't even met him. There was no social element involved. I just . . . diagnosed him."

"With what? A peanut allergy?" snapped Wilson. At some point during the argument House had moved closer, and now they were only a couple of feet apart, a sulky, awkward space between them.

"Actually, we haven't figured out the cause of the anaphylaxis yet," muttered House, sounding irked. Wilson glowered at him. "He was sick! _Actually _sick!"

"Oh, well _that _explains it. You must have been _brimming _with concern."

"I've never even _seen_ the damn guy! I couldn't give a crap about him!" House jabbed his cane at him and went on the offensive; "_You_ just don't want to talk about this, so you keep coming up with crap that --"

"We don't _need _to talk about this because you've already found everything out!"

"Yeah. You're right. Clearly everything's solved," said House, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He looked as furious as Wilson now, which he _definitely_ had no right to do, and Wilson was just about to tell him so when a bolt of pain lanced through his shoulder like an electric wire and he doubled over.

"_Ah,_ - God - !" A hand caught him before he could fall, and held him up as a white-hot blade sliced down his arm.

"Wilson, - what -?"

"_Ah . ._" Wilson really couldn't say anything else; he didn't know how he was still hanging above the floor; couldn't feel the body supporting his weight. The world was white and screaming; the pain hit with the blinding intensity of a camera flash, and then, just as suddenly, it was gone, leaving him numb and dazed in its afterglow.

He was being steered to the sofa, and Wilson remembered House; his death grip on Wilson's good arm and his tense voice from somewhere near his ear, telling him to sit down.

"No, . . . it's, - ok now," he gasped, trying to refocus, and he attempted to recoil and stand by himself.

"Sit _down,_" ordered House, one hand still clenched unrelentingly on his bicep, and something suddenly swiped his feet out from under him and the hand pushed backwards, and with a gentle bump Wilson was sitting on the couch.

"House - !" He tried to sound indignant, but only managed stunned. House was crouched forwards and studying him intently, having extracted the cane from Wilson's ankles.

"What happened?"

"It's fine," mumbled Wilson. His legs were shaking. House muttered something from above his head and vanished, and Wilson took the opportunity to wipe his eyes and blink his vision back into focus.

A glass of water pressed into his hand, and House was back. "Shoulder?"

"It was just -- It just hurt for a second," he said. "I must have jarred it. It's fine now."

"Shooting pain?"

"House, I know what neuropathic - "

"What kind of pain?"

"Yes, shooting pain! It's fine. It's _gone_."

House watched him for a moment, as if Wilson was attempting some sort of elaborate cover-up, before sinking onto the couch. His hand moved in tight circles over his thigh, and Wilson wondered if he'd strained his leg keeping him from collapsing on the floor. Given House's expression, he decided not to ask.

They sat in silence, House resting his forehead on the handle of his cane. He looked tense and pale. Hell, he probably looked worse than Wilson did, and Wilson felt a small (_ridiculous_) pang of guilt. He turned back to staring at the wall ahead, when House finally cleared his throat.

"I never read the police report," he said quietly. "I have pretty much no idea what happened." It sounded as if it was paining House to admit it. "The woman - the cop - she mentioned something about the charges at the hospital. Hate crime. I figured . . ." Wilson stared at him. "You're right. I wanted to know. But -- I don't." House met his gaze. His eyes were wide and anxious.

It felt like the hand that had been clenched around Wilson's heart had suddenly let go; suddenly its fingers were uncurling, and he could breathe again. Whatever he wanted to say, or share, was still his; still private, and he could draw walls back around it if he liked. He could still decide.

_And House,_ . . . really, it shouldn't change anything, but it _did_, a little. _Of course it was typical that House didn't mention this until now_ -- but he was here; edgy and hating it, and he hadn't bolted. That was something. Wilson didn't want --

He just needed something to work with. Questioning House was like tap-dancing on landmines: hit the wrong spot, and everything would be over.

Tread_ carefully,_ Wilson decided, and just _maybe, _he'd be able to steer them safely forwards, because God knows, House certainly couldn't manage it.

"Why didn't you just -- tell me that?"

House continued to stare the tips of his shoes, twisting his cane between his hands. _Maybe House had some ingrained aversion to admitting that he didn't know something, _mused Wilson in vexation. _Or did he just enjoy seeing Wilson furious? _He didn't look like the past twenty-four hours had been much fun for him either, and Wilson suddenly remembered his conversation last night. "Cuddy said you didn't want to take his case?"

House looked immediately irritated at this outside interference. "This has nothing to do with Cuddy," he snapped. "She gave me a choice, and I chose this. _Cuddy_ has no control over my actions."

_Yeah. If it were left up to House, they'd definitely be sunk._

"But you - didn't want to?" pushed Wilson, and some distant part of him was watching and marvelling at how controlled he felt now, and how _in_ control, while House was practically squirming like a schoolboy in his seat.

" . . . No," House admitted finally, almost earnestly, to the living room floor. "I didn't_ --_" He trailed off again, biting his lip, while Wilson watched. House glanced up at his scrutiny, and cast him a resentful look.

"If you didn't want to . . ." Wilson was genuinely perplexed. "It's _you,_ so it could hardly have been an ethical dilemma. Why the hell did you?" House frowned. _Cue diversionary tactics,_ thought Wilson.

"I didn't mean for you to find out like that. I was going to tell you - "

"Why did you take the case?"

" - and then _Cameron_ decided -"

"Wow." House looked up sharply.

"What?"

"You, avoiding this. You're -- actually upset about this, aren't you?" House got quickly to his feet, clearly irritated by the turn the conversation was taking.

"And suddenly _you're_ Mr. Happy." He pointed his cane in accusation. "What happened to your stance yesterday evening? Nothing's changed, and suddenly I'm worth talking to again?"

"You don't think anger was a reasonable response to the fact you've been secretly treating the man who tried to kill me?!"

"Sure, if that was what you were pissed about, rather than the fact you thought I'd figured out your secret! I'm just trying to _explain _how you suddenly go from -- "

"_No,_ the only thing you have to explain is what the hell_ you_ were doing!" Wilson's voice was suddenly _very _loud, and House actually looked shocked, but he didn't care. "_You're _the one treating him!"

Shocked, and cornered. House didn't even try to say anything.

Wilson buried his head in his hand. "Fine. _Don't._ Just keep on analysing me and doing whatever the hell you want. If you don't think this matters -- "

"It does." House spoke so quietly Wilson had to lift his head to check he'd heard correctly. "I don't - " He sighed in frustration, and seemed to steel himself. "I know this was, . . . important. I don't want you to think - "

"You don't care what people think," said Wilson automatically.

"Fine," retorted House, "then I want you to _know_ that _I _know this was a big deal. I didn't just take the case to fuck with you, ok? I don't get any extra satisfaction because this guy tried to --" He stopped, apparently unable to continue. "I'm sorry, ok?" he snapped finally. "I should have told you."

Wilson stared at him, because he couldn't really think of anything to say, or decide whether he was still furious or not. House sank into a chair.

"Why did you move back in with me?"

"Because . . . You offered," said Wilson flatly. It was fairly obvious.

"Yes, I did. But the reason _you_ accepted was because you want to talk about this."

"That's crap!" said Wilson, incredulous. "What, suddenly _you_ want me to start emoting? Just so that you can ignore me, or tell me to go to hell?"

"I didn't say _I _wanted to listen," said House irritably. "I said _you_ needed to tell me, and here I am."

"Right," said Wilson skeptically. "_You _want me to discuss my feelings."

"No. As far as I'm concerned, the best thing you could do is file the whole thing away under 'shit happens' and move on," said House. "Lie about what happened, that's fine. It's smart. Forget all about it."

"Why do I get the feeling there's a 'but' rapidly approaching?"

"_But _don't pretend to yourself! You're not an idiot. Why the hell haven't you told the cops what really happened?"

"I told them -"

House shook his head and leaned forward, completely serious. "You're letting Harvey get off lightly because you don't want to face up to the fact that people are bastards."

"Oh trust me, I've known that one for a while," muttered Wilson pointedly.

"Yeah, but you're _still_ nice to everybody, you still try with everybody, and this guy _still_ wanted you dead." Wilson flinched. Blood rushed to his face, and he had to fight the urge to do a House, and bolt for the next room; move himself as far away as possible from the words coming out of his friend's mouth.

House took a breath, and tightened his grip on his cane. "He could get life in jail. You can _do_ something, and you should." House finally looked up at Wilson; and the barely controlled fury in his voice, in his eyes, almost made Wilson flinch away again; except that this time he knew it wasn't aimed at him. It was _for _him. "He deserves it."

Wilson felt something hot, like relief, or gratitude, shuddering through him. He wanted all this to be over now. But of course, it wasn't; so he stared at the coffee table and tried to let his brain unfocus. The couch sank down as House's weight joined his own, and after a brief look at Wilson, as if to ask permission, House's fingers were gently moving the immobiliser into place.

House cleared his throat. "Think - Think you can get off the couch without shrieking like a girl?"

Wilson swallowed and had to wait for a few seconds before answering. He could feel House bracing himself beside him, unsure if he'd been forgiven. Wilson wasn't sure, either.

"Do you really want to start bringing out the cripple jokes now? I've got six years worth stored up." And House relaxed beside him, gave him a rare, genuine smile, and Wilson suddenly knew (without being sure why, or how, or even whether House deserved it) that what lay between them could be salvaged. That he wanted to try.

"Right. You've been going easy on me." House tightened the strap by several notches. "The idea is to _immobilise_, for Christ's sake. Who did this up?"

"Cuddy. I think I might have been unconscious."

"I always knew she was a lousy doctor," muttered House, urging Wilson back onto his feet.

"I think she was trying to go easy on me." House snorted.

"Great idea. Look where that got you." He took his arm off Wilson's cautiously, as if expecting him to topple to the floor. "Alright now?"

It wasn't an excuse, or an explanation, or anything like enough to undo the strands of anger and bitterness still twisting through Wilson's brain - but the simple, sure knowledge that, in his own twisted way, _House gave a damn_; that it wasn't just some game to him, . . . It was enough, right now, to outshine every other scattered objection in Wilson's head.

He risked trying to move, and nodded when he felt a twinge in his shoulder rather than a hot knife. "Yeah. It's ok."

House poked at the boxes disintegrating on the kitchen counter. "Pizza?"

"Cold pizza? You don't have any other food?" And _this _was what Wilson wanted, right now; to shrug back into their old, comfortable rhythm and pretend, just for a while, that they had never stepped out of it.

"I have beer."

"Seriously, how can a grown man have absolutely _no _food in the house?"

"Oh yeah, this never gets old. Such fresh material. You should do stand up." House spotted a half-empty jar of peanut butter and descended on it triumphantly. And then, because he was _House_, and he couldn't leave anything – "So, are you going to talk to the cops?"

Wilson narrowed his eyes, but House was House again, confident in his reprieve, and Wilson couldn't quite bring himself to be mad about that. "Sure."

"Actually? You're not going to stick your head back in the sand as soon as this conversation's over?"

"You know, I actually already have a therapist," said Wilson, and as he said it he was suddenly aware that he hadn't actually thought of her since this entire mess began.

"Who you haven't called. Maybe, . . ." House quirked an eyebrow in self-deprecation, and gave Wilson a small smirk. "Maybe you'd prefer some deeper guidance." He started rifling through the cutlery drawer, leaving Wilson to stare blankly at the top his head.

". . . Ok." Wilson nodded, and took a deep breath. "I'll speak to the cops again."

House paused, uncertain. "Good." Wilson watched House frowning into the silverware, and silently counted to five, impressed despite himself. For House, that was reaching almost Buddhist levels of self-restraint.

"You don't want to know what I'm going to tell them?"

House looked up, and Wilson found that he didn't mind his curiosity when it was like this - a response, not an inquisition. "I don't know."

"You don't know if you're going to tell the cops?"

"I don't know _what_ to tell the cops," clarified Wilson. He leaned against the wall and held out his hand for the jar. House grudgingly handed it over.

"You don't remember?"

"No, I remember pretty much everything, I just - I just don't know what it meant." House tilted his head and eyed Wilson quizzically. "They said stuff and - I don't know if they planned it, or it was just talk. I don't know if it was personal. I mean, I don't understand how it could be, but I don't know if I was just some guy with a wallet, or . . ." He dug a spoon into the bottom of the jar and frowned. "I guess they could have followed me. It doesn't really matter, I suppose."

"You went to Temple?" Wilson nodded. "Why were you even there in the first place?" demanded House, looking personally affronted. Wilson rolled his eyes, but he felt strangely grateful that House wasn't holding back from being - well, House. This kind of belligerence was House's comfort zone, and it was perversely reassuring; almost enough to believe that, whatever had just happened, had worked in someway towards fixing things.

"A person can choose to go to a service every now and then. It doesn't signal the end of rational thought."

"It signifies _something._ You haven't been since you were a kid, and you suddenly decided to drop in? What, did you see Moses in your cereal?"

"Yes. That's exactly what happened."

"Well, something must have changed," insisted House. "You know, most people turn to God _after _something like this happens. You must be thrilled that you got in beforehand. Look where that got you."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Are you - blaming _God_ now?"

"Why the hell did you go?"

"Why does it have to bother you that I did?"

"Now who's avoiding the question? Religion bothers me. _Stupidity_ bothers me."

Wilson stared at the ceiling in resignation. "Were we _actually_ having a conversation, or was this just laying the groundwork for one of your atheistic rants?"

"Did you think the clouds would part and your life would suddenly stop sucking?"

"Thought so. Carry on. I'm going to ignore you for while."

"What? I was just saying you're an idiot," said House, as if presenting Wilson with a flawless syllogism.

"Thanks. Please continue insulting my religion. I really haven't had enough of that this week."

"Yeah, it's exactly the same," said House, rolling his eyes. "I'm speaking out of _concern._ I don't want you to start hanging out in the chapel, or giving all your money away to some lame charity."

"You mean you don't want to have to start buying your own meals and find someone else to play foosball with," countered Wilson. "Religion isn't actually toxic, House. Going to Temple one evening a year is not going to melt my brain."

House snorted. "Sure. That's what they all say, until, - " He stopped, his eyes unfocusing. Wilson blinked.

"House?" House didn't answer, suddenly miles away, watching some hidden light unveil.

"That's it," he murmured.

"Really? . . . Wait, what?!" House's eyes flashed at him, and then he was grabbing his keys and heading towards the door. "What are you doing?"

House paused in the doorway. "I'll be back soon," he said, and he gave Wilson a wide, wicked grin. "I just realised I have God on my side. We're going to solve a case."


	17. Chapter 17

****

Thanks to everyone who has left reviews on this story; they are hugely appreciated! sorry for the delay, but my muse died. Completely. I've been at a bit of a creative dead end for weeks, so I scribbled this out last night to try and move things forward a bit. Let me know what you think, as ever --

* * *

Damn.

His dramatic entrance - bursting into his office at full pelt - was somewhat marred, House reflected, by the fact that there was no one there to witness it. He needed minions, _now._

Standing still for the first moment since tearing out of his apartment, House realised that his heart was beating faster than usual; he felt almost giddy, riding the aftermath of some adrenaline high. Like he used to feel after running hard, or laughing too long. He felt _good._

_It's called relief, _a cold voice in his head pointed out. _You got away with it. _

House found himself sitting down in one of the conference room chairs, suddenly unsteady. His light-headedness shifted, like the aftermath of a sugar rush or roller-coaster ride, and took that familiar dip into nausea.

What had he said? He couldn't remember. How the hell had he gotten himself out of this? One minute he'd been braced for anything Wilson could hurl at him, and then . . . Wilson had been eating his peanut butter and raising his eyebrows as if nothing had ever -

_No_: not as if nothing had ever happened. Even Wilson wasn't that stupid. And he hadn't even deserved it, but _somehow _House had successfully conjured a ceasefire. Apparently, he was a diplomatic genius. The thought was almost enough to quell the bubble of guilt in his stomach, and he leaned back against the chair. _Wait until Cuddy finds out that I'm actually a master of conflict negotiation. _

Wilson always had been a sucker for apologies. A smug feeling rose up and immediately started to fade as House realised that, for the first time in a _long _time, the apology had been painfully sincere. _Which only made it worse_. As soon as an apology needed sincerity, you could be sure that the apology wouldn't be enough. He frowned down at his reflection in the tabletop. _Had Wilson been going easy on him? _Of course, he'd always known that Wilson was a sneaky bastard, but it was only just dawning on House that oneof them must have engineered some sort of resolution here, and with a twinge of annoyance he realised he wasn't entirely sure that it had been him.

_Lucky for you. _Much as House prided himself on his role as master-manipulator, he'd known from the start that he wasn't in control of this one; whatever he said and however he said it wouldn't have been enough, coming just from him. A bridge needed to be built from both sides.

"What are you doing in here?"

"It's my office," House pointed out.

"And it's before noon. And from what I heard, you already solved the case." Cuddy circled the table and leaned against a chair-back. He could tell by the way she stood in the corner of his vision that she was aiming for eye contact, so he shifted and scanned the corridor beyond the glass walls instead.

"Where the hell are my staff?"

"Chase is in the clinic. No idea about the other two." House exhaled in an irritated huff.

"I should get them tagged," he muttered.

"Not exactly looking hard, are you?"

"Cripple." House waved dismissively. "They can come to the mountain." Cuddy gave him an exasperated look.

"So this is how you're spending the entire morning? You don't think there are more productive ways of spending your time?"

"Isn't there something more productive that _you_ could be doing instead of standing there lecturing someone you know isn't going to pay you the slightest bit of attention?" suggested House. He reached for his Vicodin, keeping his eyes fixed on the corridor. He saw her shift in annoyance in the corner of his eye.

"How's Wilson doing?"

"Wilson?" House swivelled in the chair and fixed her with a hurt look. "I thought we were talking about _me_?"

"It got boring," she said flatly. "I'm serious. Have you talked to him?"

"Wilson's fine," he said, turning back towards the corridor, and catching sight of one of them at last. "_Hey!_ Get in here!"

"House -"

"What, exactly, do you think I've done to him?" exclaimed House. "Tied him to the bed? Peddled his organs on the black market?" Foreman paused in the doorway, looking between them warily. "He's fine, like I said. And yes, we talked. Although apparently, not before you two had a nice little _chat_."

To House's grudging admiration, Cuddy didn't even flinch. She folded her arms, utterly unfazed. "Good."

He glared. "You had no business -"

"Defending you?" She shook her head, and strolled up to him with an almost amused expression on her face. "Trust me, it's not a position I'm going to be taking very often." She looked down at him; a small, resigned smile on her lips. "Just when you're apparently too much of an ass to do it yourself."

She brushed past Foreman and sauntered away down the corridor, leaving House frowning after her. Foreman slowly lowered his eyebrows and stepped in the room.

"I take it you called me in here for a reason?" House blinked at him for a few seconds before his brain snapped back into action.

"Yeah. Which one's Harvey's room?" Foreman narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Why?"

"Because I'm his damn doctor," said House, glowering.

"You _solved the case. _You were right: Mastocytosis. There's nothing left to -" He stopped at House's expression and sighed. "403. What are you -"

"Where are his clothes?"

"_What?_"

"His clothes, the stuff he was brought in with?"

"Why do you -"

"Because I heard axe-murderer chic is coming back in this season," he snapped impatiently. "Just answer the damn question!"

"I don't know, upstairs! In storage." Foreman stepped forwards and blocked House's dart for the doorway. "What are you planning to do?"

House raised his eyebrows at Foreman's concerned expression. "What do you think I'm going to do? Kill him?"

"Of course not. Just -"

"Good. I'm going to see the patient - _you,_ stay away. Private consult. And for God's sake, stop looking so worried." He grinned, and pushed past his fellow into the corridor. "I'm a _doctor. _I'm here to help."

* * *

Storage was as much of a mess as ever, items carelessly tagged and thrown into steel drawers and cabinets. House poked at some of the plastic wrapping with his cane as he scanned through the debris. _Harvey, Harvey, 403 -- Ah._ He grabbed the bag and started rooting through the contents feverishly, the adrenaline rushing back through him again. _Come on, come on --_

Jeans, a watch, a wallet - not Wilson's; one of the other gorillas must have made off with that. Shoes. Keys. A t-shirt, white and red -- No. He hooked it with the crook of his cane and eyed it critically. It had been white, originally.

He stared at the rusty little specks and stains and felt a bolt of shock. _Blood loss._ He tilted it in the light and saw a scrunched up face smooth out. Bruce Lee: fists raised, ready to fight. House dropped it to the floor in disgust, and kept searching.

It _had_ to be here. He was right, he knew it -- But what if it wasn't? Lost in the lot, thrown in the trash, hastily grabbed by one of the other guys? He rummaged harder through the clump of clothes; could the police have it? Wilson, even, keeping quiet as ever? One of them_ must_ have--

He stopped at a glint of silver, and for second his stomach turned over before he realised that it was just a button gleaming at the bottom of the bag. _Idiot. Of course the police have _that_._

And then, -- _Bingo._ House smiled down into the contents of the bag. He was right.

_Religion isn't actually toxic, House._

And Wilson was wrong.

* * *

You wouldn't think it would be so goddamn hard to get some rest in a hospital. Every thirty seconds it seemed, there was someone, a nurse or a doctor or the fucking janitor, barging in and disturbing him. And now there was this guy, some old guy he hadn't seen before. Harvey glared from his position in the bed as the stranger walked in and swiped the chart off the foot of the bed.

"What do you want?"

"Harvey?" The man scanned the page and raised an eyebrow. _"James_ Harvey?"

"Yeah, what?" he snapped. His stomach still hurt like a bitch, and the rest of him wasn't far behind.

"I've been in charge of your case. My name's Doctor -"

"You doing more tests?" he asked belligerently. He scowled at the answering nod. "I told that other doctor, I don't want any more tests. They figured it out already. Mas . . . Mas-something, -"

"Adult onset Mastocytosis."

"Yeah, that," he said sullenly. "I'm not having another biopsy." The man nodded insincerely.

"Of course. It is a large needle. Being _stabbed_ like that does tend to hurt."

Harvey glared at him.

"Let me guess. You've come in here to tell me what a son of a bitch I am?" he jeered. Every damn doctor and nurse in the place: of course the guy had to work _here. _The man just stared at him, until Harvey started feeling uncomfortable. "You know him? That - " _what the hell was his name?_ " -- that Wilson guy? You know him too?"

"Wilson?" The doctor tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Listen, I don't need to hear any shit from you about any of that, understood? If you came in here to talk about that then you can just shut the fuck up."

"I work here. He works here," he continued, as if Harvey hadn't spoken (and God, _that_ made him pissed), "of course I know him." He paused, as if in reflection. "He's an idiot."

" . . . So you ain't here to go on about him?" Even the hot doctor hadn't been able to shut her fucking mouth about what a bastard Harvey was. Wasn't exactly _professional, _was it?

The guy hooked his cane over the rail and started fiddling with the little plastic wires sprouting around the bed. "Oh, I'm not a big talker."

Harvey relaxed back in the bed. "Makes a change. You're not so bad," he declared, grinning with practised insolence.

But the guy just looked up and gave him a brief, bright-eyed smile. For some reason, it was the_ least_ reassuring thing that he could have done. . . . _Guy's got a shit bedside manner,_ Harvey mused. _Same as everyone else in this place._

"Do you already understand the details of your condition as explained by Dr. Cameron?"

"Yeah, whatever. If you're my doctor, how come I've never met you before?"

"I don't like patients," he said tonelessly. Harvey snorted.

"Real nice guy, aren't ya?" The man's gaze flickered over his face again, and Harvey squared his jaw.

"As are you. Apparently, you haven't had a visitor the whole time you've been in this place. Apart from the cops, of course."

"What you trying to say?!" Most doctors, white collar guys, they flinched as soon as you looked at them funny. Strange, but _this_ guy didn't seem to get intimidated easily; even though he obviously had the whole lifestyle; crippled as well.

"Not even your partners in crime. You must be pissed at them. Leave you to die, did they?" Harvey narrowed his eyes.

"You're a fucking cop now? They're smart. I'm not gonna -- "

"Smarter than you," the guy grinned, with a kind of reckless amusement. Harvey lunged into a sitting position, fists clenched. "That's got to hurt," he observed impassively. "Lie down." Harvey didn't move. "_Lie down._ You're tied to the bed. What do you think is going to happen?"

Harvey was pretty sure the guy wouldn't look so fucking pleased with himself if he wasn't stuck in the bed. It made him edgy. "You don't know anything about me," he spat. "I'm not informing on anyone - just like I told the cops." He looked straight at the guy. _Really_ blue eyes he had, now Harvey noticed; a hard, shuttered stare. "I look after my own," he added coolly; and was gratified to see _something, _something other than smartass humour, flare suddenly in the doctor's expression as he reached for the monitors and finally stopped fucking grinning at him_._

"How sweet. You guys have a moral code. Rob from the rich, then beat the crap out of them."

"Hey, I thought you didn't fucking like the guy?"

"No; apparently, that's you. _I _said he was an idiot; you're the one that stabbed him." His voice was very casual.

" . . . Why d'you unplug that?"

"Disconnects the monitors."

"That part of the test?"

The guy straightened up, and creased his forehead. "Sure. Let's go with that." Then he reached towards him and Harvey jerked away. "_Wrist. _The monitor's off. I need your resting pulse rate," the doctor said, as if Harvey was some kind of moron. His hands were cold. Harvey felt a sudden, fierce urge to exert himself.

"What happened to your leg?" No response, and he felt that familiar, angry tightening in his chest. "You not talking now?" _Nothing._ Harvey cocked his head, and then it came to him:

"So, why's this guy an idiot?"

"Why did you try to kill him?" the doc countered immediately, not taking his eyes off his watch. Harvey smirked; _too fucking easy. _

"Yeah, right. Think I don't know what you guys want me to say?" They'd spoken to him about this; all this race shit. Waiting for him to screw up.

"Wow, you _are _clever! You got me." _Asshole._

He hated the smug ones; self-satisfied and superior and always (when it came down to it, when you _pushed_) cowards. He watched the doctor (or maybe he was a cop?) let go of his wrist and write a note on the chart. Guy couldn't even walk on his own - _just_ _one kick; take away that fucking stick; he wouldn't even last a day, -_ and even so, you could tell, he thought he was so much_ better_.

He was so sick of it, the way these people _looked_ at him. He suddenly wanted to say something, to stop it; shake the doctor up; pull the strings; _anything_.

"He deserved it."

The guy turned around slowly, and stared at him.

"You think I'm some fucking idiot? Think you came in here to talk about someone you don't give a crap about? You don't have any test," he spat contemptuously. "You just came to see for yourself. I am _sick_ - " (and he'd just wanted to poke, but he found the words flooding out of him like a dam had burst, relishing their force) " - of you people waiting for me to fucking apologise. _I'm not gonna._ Far as I'm concerned, the guy deserved worse. And whatever _you_ think about that --" he kept his eyes fixed on the guy's face, drawing out every word for emphasis, " -- you can keep to yourself, because _I_ - _don't - fucking - care_."

For a second, Harvey thought . . . the man didn't change position - it didn't even looked like he'd blinked - but his entire frame seemed to tauten and _darken_. His hand was a livid white on the cane, and for the briefest second, Harvey wondered if he'd been wrong; if he'd pushed too far. He tended to do that. Maybe it was personal.

The man turned around, and started walking. Harvey relaxed; but then he drew the blinds, and turned back again.

The doctor reached into his pocket, and when he spoke again, he sounded different. Sharper, steady, and perfectly in control. The voice of someone who knows exactly where the conversation is going, and that they're ready to enjoy it.

"Do you recognise this?"

" . . . What?" Harvey asked, as aggressively as possible. He felt suddenly uneasy.

"It's a medical question," the man said, holding the clear plastic bag aloft, a dark smudge sealed up inside it. Harvey squinted.

"What is that?"

"Of course. It must be difficult. Maybe it would help your memory if you kicked me a few times first, just took it off me?" The doctor took a step closer.

"The hell, man?" Harvey snapped. "If this ain't a medical thing, then you can -"

"I'm _guessing _that you took it out of his pocket. Skin contact, most likely. It's not the sort of trigger we'd think to look for in underground Jersey, you know, instead of dust, concrete, oil, the obvious - it's hardly _toxic._ "

"You gonna tell me what the fuck you're talking about?" asked Harvey, but the man just smiled again, and ripped the plastic open.

"Catch."

And to Harvey's annoyance and perplexity, the crumpled little _thing_ landed gently on his chest, and he grabbed at it. His fingers closed tightly around the soft cloth disc, squeezing in anger, and he surged up to hurl it back at the man's face, except --

Except that something had just appeared in his throat. He couldn't _breathe._

"Interesting." Harvey sucked in a gasp of air, and fell back in the bed. _No air. _A hand reached down and held the dark disc up to the light for inspection. "You know what this is?" asked the doc conversationally. "It's a _kippah._ Or a yarmulke. Or just a stupid hat, take your pick. I'd forgotten Wilson even had one.

They make these out of all sorts of things, but my guess for this one is fur. Not the kind of thing you'd think of straight away for anaphylaxis in a parking lot; especially when no one will tell you what the hell really happened." He frowned, and turned back to look at Harvey.

"_I -- I can't, --_ "

"And now, it looks like my theory was right. Of course, as your attending physician, it would be irresponsible of me to discharge you into custody until we can be 100 per cent certain; so we should probably wait a while to be sure." The man stared down into Harvey's wide, frantic eyes, and his face seemed, upright and backlit as it was above him, to hold some dark, grim glow to it. He leaned comfortably on the bed rails, and let out a sudden snort of laughter, as if sharing some private joke with him. "I mean, you've not even turned _blue_ yet!"

"_I can't --_" Panic was drowning out everything; his lungs were hardening into stone tablets and his throat was swelling and nothing was happening when he clicked the button and every monitor was silent. And the guy was just _watching_ him.

"You're fuc -- fuckin' _crazy_," he managed. He made a frantic swipe to grab at the man but couldn't seem to reach. _Suffocation_: and he couldn't think, or speak, but he couldn't _not _listen; in spite of the gasps thundering in his ears.

"Me? I'm your doctor; I'm _helping _you. I'm not just some aimless, vicious _psychopath,_" the man said, with a cold, terrifying lightness. Harvey twisted desperately in the bed, looking at the darkened window, waiting for someone to come, and --

"See, when I plug this in, all the alarms will go off and a load of nurses are going to run in, and you're going to be able to breathe again." A silver point hovered in front of Harvey's blurring vision -- but it was just the lead to the monitor; nothing else, not _that_. The doctor twisted it idly in his fingers. "So right now, the question I'm asking myself is, -- " He leaned down, his face inches from Harvey's own, and hissed; " - what I'm asking myself is, _do _you_ deserve it?_"

_Wasn't he meant to be under guard? Where the hell was his guard?_ Blue blazed at him, and black dots erupted like bubbles across it all. Concrete had been poured and was setting in his chest.

"You know where Wilson is right now? He's at my house. Because he's an idiot. He deserves better. But _you, . . ._"

" _-- Please -"_

"Do you know what _you _deserve?"

_He was going to die, oh _fuck;_ the guy was going to kill him. All this from some fucking religious piece of crap, and now --_ red flares fired across his retina; his heart shuddered and swelled and --

A hand gripped the front of his gown, and dragged him up into the blinding hospital light; into a furious, implacable glare.

"Count yourself lucky. Wilson's going to make sure you never get out of prison, because _I'm_ going to make him. You deserve _so much _worse."

And a screaming was filling his ears; a high, terrible wailing as the man dropped him and turned away. Light flooded the room, and with the slam of the door and a distant rush of voices, his lungs burned; tore a hole through his chest, and Harvey fell away as the world bled into blackness.


End file.
